Questions from lovers of freedom

Why I have to be like you?
I might be one dimensional
You can add a new dimension to me
When BJP wants us to scream Bharat Mata Ki Jai
Let my Muslim brother chant Jai Hind
Why all the colours have to turn saffron?
I love black and blue.

When my lover left me suddenly one day
I questioned
He slammed the door on my face.

Today I question the establishment
My rulers
When I see dead bodies hanged atop trees and grazing buffaloes cry in silence
I question a hundred times
I am Rohith
I am Kanhaiya
I am Umar
I am Anirban
I am Soni Sori
Yes, I am Irom Sharmila
I am one, but many
The voices that question
A million questions to an establishment that has shut the door on our faces.

The End

The weight of its wetness stretched across the skin of her face. A single tear drop that escaped her half-closed eyelids as she breathed her last seemed to have washed away all the pain that she had endured for decades.

Her frail body looked even more fragile as she lay dead, surrounded by a host of mourners. Some were crying, some others were remembering the dead in her youth—how beautiful she used to look, how good she used to be in the kitchen, how swiftly her feet moved on the sewing machine. Strangely, none of them had seen her in her youth. Yet, as the ritual demands, they were remembering the folklores told from one generation to the other.

When my grandmother died at 93 it took more an hour to untangle the knots in her hair. The nurse had to apply almost a bottle of oil on the dead woman’s head. Her eyelids would open and close in rhythm with each stroke of the comb that rummaged through the tangled mass. Finally as the nurse finished her job, grandmother’s head lolled on the pillow covered in a white case, the excess oil spread in an uneven cloud. The women of the house dressed her in the finest of clothes. Grandmother’s steel almirah was open for everybody’s inspection. The racks were filled with mekhela sadors, shawls and the much-eyed jewellery box in one corner. A necktie which once belonged to her husband hung on the inside door.

It was almost 20 years ago. Everyone says it was perhaps the arthritis in her knees that had become unbearable and her legs gave up one day. She fell in the courtyard and never got up on her feet. In that accident, it was her urge to live that got crushed. After that she refused to speak or eat her meals. There were times when she would soil the bed and get admonished.

Everyone who came to enquire about her health would say: “It’s time God took her away. She was too old and had endured the trauma of her husband and four children’s death.”

As the hearse van waited outside the gate, they lifted her body and placed it down with a jolt. Soft plumes from the burning incense sticks got lost in the cloud of fume left behind by the rickety van. It was time to say goodbye.

Happiness is like sweetmeat

This has happened to me earlier as well. Every time I almost lost my faith in humanity and is about to alienate myself from everyday happiness and sorrows, I am brought back to life. Like that sudden gust of wind, invisible yet so real. Today I am back again to live, cherish, mourn, smile… In fact, it was yesterday only, when I finally decided to go and tell my neighbour who stays two floors above my flat to stop throwing water down their balcony that variably showers down to my balcony and creates puddles all over it.

It had become a routine as a sudden gush of water, without any warning or fixed timing, would come down running from two floors above us and soil my clothes hanged out to dry in the balcony. And every time, I would wash them again muttering the choicest of cusses under my breath. Thank god for those desi gaalis. If not anything or anyone, you can always rely on them for support. Honestly, they have great healing power. Just stand in front of a mirror, mouth them aloud recalling the faces of all your real and imaginary enemies. As they tumble out like oranges from a bag, gaalis leave behind a soothing sensation in your mouth and soul.

Most of my anger manifests from the fact that the water from above ends up creating large stains on my laundry hanging on the clothesline. The hapless I have no option, but to wash my clothes again. This routine went on for a few months. I always felt like going and telling my tormentors about my precarious situation. Somehow I could not muster the courage. More than courage, I was slightly confused how would I approach them (strangers) with my personal problem. Was it okay to go and have a word with them or to keep suffering silently. Finally, I decided to bring an end to it when I saw my almost dried clothes soaked in mud water again yesterday.

I took the stairs and rang their doorbell. First, the lady of the house appeared. Immediately I introduced myself, as we never crossed each other’s path and told her the reason for my unannounced visit. She mumbled something, which I could not understand. All I could figure out was that they watered their plants some time ago. I politely requested her not to do so.

Soon, I found the man of the house standing in front of me. Looking at his face, I knew he was ready to shoot me. Like some principal of a school he wanted to check my house to find out if I was lying. I politely disagreed, as I was alone at the house at that time. I tried to tell him my problem again. His defence was: “It’s my hobby to grow plants and I will water them. Nobody can stop me,” he told me as I looked baffled. On the contrary, he asked me, “What do you do when it rains?” “My simple answer was rain water was not dirty. Probably, he thought he was next to rain god and humans are at his mercy.

I was slightly angry by then. However, I tried to talk some sense into him. I suggested him to call a plumber to connect the pipes of his balcony to the drains down. He refused. I asked him to keep his plants in his other balcony. He told me it was already full with potted plants. Still I did not give up. I asked him to keep his plants in his drawing room or on the corridor. Of course, how could I forget that plants needs sunlight? How could I be so anti-environment?

Immediately, he growled. “Madam, plants need sunlight. Can't you see?” I wanted to tell him, I could see a lot of things and the most apparent among them was his arrogance and insensitivity. By that time, I could feel a sudden heat in my cheeks. Anger was growling inside my stomach. I blurted out, you are an arrogant, insensitive man. And, I left the place. I could clearly hear the door slammed behind and a loud "thank you, madam" from the man who till a few seconds ago was full of vim and vigor and gave a good fight to protect his right to pursue his hobby, even if at the cost of others.

I felt like a fool taking some 40 stairs up and down to request someone to take care not to throw water down their balcony. I realized I should have understood earlier that those who throw water on the road or balcony or anywhere else know it well that it would be a cause of trouble for others. But it gives them that thrill and of course, they have hazaar excuses. I felt the same thing when on so many occasions vehicles zoomed past me on waterlogged roads without caring about the mud water drenching the pedestrians, as they coyly negotiate the potholes. It is not that drivers behind the wheels can’t see the road ahead, or they have blurred vision, it is the thrill to see shit on terrified faces who walk like some ants on the roads.

I was upset, slightly humiliated and desperately wanted an outlet to vent out the simmering volcano inside me. I came home and went to the washroom and did two things. Washed the clothes again and released all my pent up anger as buckets of water drowned and swallowed all the mud from my clothes and mind.

Probably, I would not have cared to narrate the above incident had it not been for what I am going to tell you now. I prefer to bury bad experiences in some unknown corners of the mind as I feel I could be wrong. May be people who abuse and make you feel small don't do it deliberately and thus there's no point telling them how you feel.

But as they say, not all hope is lost. What I'm going to tell you now will remain with me forever. Whenever, I'll feel the whole world is disintegrating and devoid of kind people, I will recall this one incident with every small detail. It happened just a few hours after the incident above. As usual the lady who comes to clean my home came and was in a hurry to leave. As she was about to leave, I handed her an envelope of money, her monthly salary. She counted the notes and said thank you to me. The thank you was something I realized because she had asked for a hike and we gave it. Moreover, she went on an unannounced leave for 15 days and was perhaps expecting us to deduct her salary to half.

It has been more than two years that she has been working for us. Every year she goes on leave twice, around 15 days each. Sundays are holidays for her and she does not come on any of the government and restricted holidays. We have never deducted her salary. It is not that we are generous, but the fact that it would be illogical to do so.

She also works in a garment factory near our house in Marathahalli. Ours is the only house which she cleans and leaves for her factory around 9 am every day.

I know a bit about her life, as she too does about mine. We share our life stories during our conversations every day. She has a daughter and her husband, who is now a caretaker of a palatial house of a rich NRI in Bengaluru, was once working as a supervisor in a garment factory in Peenya. Some five years ago, the factory was closed and she and her husband were forced to leave Peenya to find jobs in Bengaluru. Their only daughter is married with two small children.

After counting the money, she handed me a note of Rs100. Initially, I was surprised, she told me to take the money and buy sweets for myself. I refused, but she persisted. After a while I could see tears welling up in her eyes, I feared she might end up crying if I don’t take the money. She told me I was of her daughter's age and must take the money. Moreover, it was her daughter’s wedding anniversary, she continued. I was nervous and could not say anything. I asked her to bring me sweets from her village whenever she visits. She smiled and asked me if I would like to have saphed peedas (a popular sweetmeat) available at a small confectionery shop near our home.

I smiled, and she immediately got up to go even though I kept requesting her not to do so.

Within 10 minutes, she came back with a box of sweets and gave it to me. I was touched by her love and kindness. This time it was me who was overwhelmed... tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted to hug her, plant a kiss on her cheeks. I wanted to thank her, wanted to say: “Thank you for healing so many of my invisible bruises.”

Now, I know, I can take a thousand psychological assaults thrown at me everyday by life and yet not succumb. And yes, the saphed peedas were the sweetest I have ever tasted.

Put the cover back on the kettle

Let’s not talk about poverty. It’s so NGO types--the whole discussion surrounding the Indian poor with a few journalists like P. Sainath always focusing on the naked, the malnourished and the psychologically bruised found infesting the street of Swachh Bharat.


There seems to be a sinister plot by the foreign media and a few traitors to malign the reputation of the great Indian civilization by always talking about India's obscene record on poverty index even when they are writing about the booming economy of our great country (http://nyti.ms/1MKM3OT).


Why do these hungry mouths haunt only the foreign media and a few desi publicity seekers? Surely, we Indians have a lot to attend to-- family affairs, extramarital affairs, jobs, horrible bosses, etc, etc. Our insurmountable struggle in no uncertain terms can accommodate that extra-burden of thinking and doing something about poverty. Those smelly, unkempt beggars only know how to stretch out their skinny arms at the sight of every passerby to ask for alms, they don’t fit in the picture-perfect dreams of ‘shining India’ or ‘Achche Din’.

Begging should be strictly restricted to our politicians--pleading and shedding tears for our votes. There is a strange novelty about the rich and their trendsetting arguments. It’s such a heartwarming feeling to wake up to the news of benevolent leaders of the country putting aside their ego and wardrobe to help the country-- sensationally priced and designed pinstripe monogrammed bandhgala suits coming under the hammer to clean up the sins coagulating the Ganga. Isn’t that great? It’s absolutely okay for the rich and powerful to wear their suits only once and throw it away for ‘charity’ but that beggar on the outer ring road in Bengaluru seen wearing that same smelly lungi since God-knows-when does not have the courage to get rid of it. That is called greed and inability to part with your valuables.


So, if an aspiring actor/director Varun Pruthi decides to “feed the fire” in a child labour with that elusive piece of meat at MacDonalds and uploads the entire sequence of events on YouTube, the country feels cheated and hurt. Varun is an accused caught in the act of filming and showing the world the unimaginable routine of a child who has to look after his ill mother and a little sister.

For the corporate-sponsored media, only smiling and happy kids interacting with the PM or standing with spelling bee trophies can make it to the front page of dailies. Listen man, front page comes with a cost. So, thus the rest of the pages (those prophetic words that “space comes with a price” heard several times in newsrooms are not easy to forget). Varun is like Satyajit Ray, who kicked controversies, by showcasing our best kept secret--poverty. No, don’t utter the word if you are in an air-conditioned room, the air would get polluted. Don’t look at poverty, your eyes would get hurt. No, don’t whisper those words. Why bother? Who is listening?

Stolen Desires--A short story

Every time I entered her cabin to serve coffee, I would steal a glance at the yellow-blue book peeking out from between a carelessly stacked pile of books on her shelf. It was the same book that caught my fancy three months ago. Please don’t ask me “Why?” I have no answer. Every time I felt like asking her to lend me that book, I was interrupted by her request to serve her one more coffee. Her request was genuine. The small paper cups given to us to serve beverages could hold very little amount of the sugary, milky brown substance, not even enough to quench the thirst of a baby, let alone adults. And these are ‘thinking adults’ from a newsroom who help form public opinion. Thus the portion should be large and the management of the company running the newspaper house could be a bit more generous about serving handsome amount of coffee in slightly bigger vessels like the one my granny drinks from in my village home. But, who the hell was I to question the decision of my employers. I just used to serve coffee. Everybody knew me as the coffee guy. Yes, I was the coffee guy, I liked being addressed as that only as it helped me earn my livelihood. I always felt any other name would have killed my professional identity, even my real one.

Every time, I would oblige and leave her small and well-decorated cabin quietly, thinking maybe next time I will ask her. “Tomorrow I will serve her two cups of coffee at one go and ask for that book,” I would tell myself. I know she won’t refuse, but she will be definitely surprised by the request of a coffee-serving guy.

Even before I would leave her cabin, a group of impatient reporters, editors, designers and photographers would make a queue in front of my trolley which I park at the entrance of her room. I would serve them quickly and push it to small rectangular cubicles allotted for other workers. In the process, I used to exchange a few glances, return a few charitable smiles and often used to get leftover biscuits, cakes, and snacks. I reveled in all these bounties, as I was getting everything without ever asking for anything from our village deity, who my mother used to tell me fulfils the desires of all mortals. “But you have to tell the deity with honesty your heartfelt desire. You will get it,” that is what she told me when I was a young boy. I never felt the need to ask for anything except after my father died. I thought, I should have asked the deity to give my father a few more years to live on and nourish the soil which he diligently did sowing bajra and jowar in it. I guess the thought came pretty late to me. By that time the tall and well-built man that my father was turned into ashes, which we later immersed in a river in our neighbouring village.

Strangely, on that day I want to ask the deity to bestow me with the power to own that book. I failed to muster the courage to ask her. No matter how much I tried, those few words to ask her to lend me that yellow-blue beauty eluded me.

As a last resort I prayed hard to the deity. In my dream, I saw the deity as huge as a banyan tree coming to my room and gifting me the book. Next morning I knew the book would be mine. As I went to serve her morning coffee, she was absent from her room. The book instead of its usual place was lying on the floor. As a reflex I picked it up to put it back in its original place. Suddenly the deity appeared from nowhere and asked me to take the book and hide it inside my over-sized uniform. “This is stealing. I am not a thief,” I trembled. “Nonsense, do whatever I say,” the deity ordered and vanished and nowhere to be seen. I put the book inside my uniform and left her room. Nobody got a whiff of the missing book, not even the owner. I started sleeping with the book and waited for the appropriate moment to open it and smell the musty fragrance. As a daily routine I kept serving her coffee and she behaved absolutely normal with me. That gave me the confidence that nobody has discovered the fact that the book was missing, or perhaps it was too inconsequential for them to bother so much about it.

Fourteen days later, I was summoned by a group of management officials who asked me to quit with immediate effect. They denied me my dues too and asked me to leave my uniform at the washroom. As I folded my coffee-stained uniform, I could smell the helplessness of my desire----the desire of an illiterate man to read an English book. Without the uniform I looked like a clown who had been caught stealing. That night I decided to open the book. All I could see was blurry black words. As I wiped off my tears, I saw my reflection staring back at me in pity out of those pages.

Conversation in silence

There is so much of noise around me/ Here my speech fails me/ I am a pigmy/ The mighty world betrays what my mother taught me/ Don't lie, be polite, don't be greedy / My mother told me so many things/ Many lessons died while i grew up/ I am no more myself/ A poet never lies/ If she does, she grows into a monster.


We all are falling apart/ Sun is up there/ Reality is my dark skin.

Murder the time/ Before time slaughters us/ With all its fancy/ I can smell blood every moment/ Someone is waving his hands / I am sleeping in a raft/ a fish is sleeping on my chest.

Frogs cried that rainy night/The departed soul inhaled my smoke/My mother gave me this life/I shall return home with some sweets.

The world is empty, yet full/We don't know anything any more/ I feel sad looking at people/I am feeling unusually painful/ I feel sad even looking at a floating ballon.

The child and the angel (A story by Darshita, my 6-year-old niece)

Once upon a time there was a girl named Little Mermaid. She wanted to go to Mysore. She asked her father to take her to Mysore. But her father said no. Mermaid said why. Because I have no money for plane ticket. Then she went alone. She fell in a river and an Angel picked her up. Mermaid said thank you to Angel.

Bangalore Rains and Few Distorted Feelings (A Poem)

There are thousand suns/
A Million moons/
But, my earth is one/
The single raindrop is one/
The road wet in tears is one/
Leaves shivering in breeze stitches a life of unknown/
I am still there holding my pink umbrella under the pine groove of my plateau/
The paddy fields of untold stories/
Bursting and tearing apart what my innocence told me once/
Memories of my last wooden house on the tree top is what I carry with my sisters.

LION’S DEN (A SHORT STORY)

LION’S DEN (A SHORT STORY)

The crowd swelled up by evening. Almost the entire afternoon he was alone in that watering hole. Sukumar’s face was deep immersed in a smoke screen left behind by his burning cigarettes, as he sipped mugs after mugs of chilled beer. Nestled between array of shops selling discounted clothes, Lion’s Den has a notorious reputation. They say it was the first official pub to come up in the city way back in the 50s.

Before that public drinking was a rarity. The elite would drink behind guarded walls of clubs, and poor would indulge in merry-making in pavements itself. The pub polluted the educated middle-class. Now, they have a space to indulge in immorality, as liquor freely flowed from delicately designed imported bottles.

They say pub opened up innumerable doors for criminals to indulge in heinous activities. While drinkers swallowed their money and homely happiness in Lion’s Den, criminals with their puckered faces and equally puckered intentions went after their hunts with utmost successes. It jolted the public from their normal routine. Now they have to be extra alert. The alert cops were equally jolted. But they were helpless.

They could not do much, except for registering rise in crime rate in their notebook. Instances of rape, which were earlier unheard of, strangulated the city out of its pace. A thin flimsy layer of fear lurks over the city’s horizon. Unseen fear, fear residing inside the bushes of neighbourhood, fear in public spaces, fear in deserted alleys, fear in high society parties, fear in mind and body, fear even started breeding alongside mosquitoes in dirty stinking drains spread across the city.

One place that was happy and laughing aloud was Lion’s Den. Making profit in millions. It inspired many to open up similar ventures. Milk might be in scare in the city, but not alcohol. Was it happy hour from 11am to 6pm, boldly engraved in a huge yellow and green board hanging at the entrance of Lion’s Den that had hypnotised him to revisit the place after 15 years of gap, or was it intentional judging by recent events of his life?

“Whatever,” Sukumar mumbled between his breathe. “Excuse me Sir, you need something?” the young bartender attending him all this while, came rushing in to please his client. “Do me a favour. Leave me alone.” Sukumar realised his mistake of being rude. But he did not feel like asking for an apology.

“That way I would end up rendering apologies to the whole world,” he smiled to himself. The only table that had been left empty in the 30-sitter room was occupied by a love stuck couple. The huge clock hanging in the distant wall declared—10pm. “I can drink for one more hour, before it shuts down,” Sukumar settled for another beer pitcher.


*******************


He was nervous and laughing awkwardly. Perhaps in the garb of a happy face he was hiding his inner turmoil. Two most important events of his life awaited him. “Would I get the job? Would she marry me, or succumb to the pressure of her parents and marry her NRI fiancé?”

Volcano of thoughts exploded Sukumar’s bearing. His friends--Ajay and Surya--broke into first few stanzas of “Everything I do, I do it for you..”, perhaps the only English song known by his friend circle. Adithya, Rakesh, and Mohan clapped enthusiastically to keep the momentum of the song alive. Sukumar was lost in his world. His physical presence was a clever pretension.

He hoodwinked everyone in believing that he was part of the youthful gang. He was attached and detached at the same time. He beautifully managed to portray a fake smile, as part of his participation in the roller coaster ride. They all had saved for a month to come to Lion’s Den, to mark the end of their university days. They had asked for whiskey, the finest for their pockets to endure.

Sukumar’s priorities had changed. He wanted the corporate job desperately. The interview was long and grilling. Job opportunities were few and far between. Liberalisation was almost a decade away in India. His father could not afford to pay for the bribe a local politician was asking for to fix his job in a government department. Owning a business enterprise was deemed lowly in his family of academicians and doctors.

“If I don’t get this job, Jaya has to marry her fiancé,” Sukumar blurted out all of a sudden. Song came to an abrupt halt. Friends looked anxiously at him. “All will be fine. Don’t worry you will get the job. Trust us. Now, enjoy your drink,” the five almost sang in unison. The comical timing of his friends’ consolation genuinely touched his happy chord. He smiled, this time from his heart.

**********


Jaya had never expressed her displeasure at Sukumar’s drinking habit. She had adjusted herself well with the fact that in a high flying corporate job her husband had to drink, to be part of the crowd. Sukumar has always been a moderate drinker, but he drinks almost every day. Past few months saw some unpleasant changes. Sukumar would sit alone in his reading room and drink till the wee hours of morning. Initially Jaya would ignore it as work related stress.

However, the day she found her husband lying unconscious on the floor, surrounded in a pool of undigested food materials, which probably he had thrown out from his mouth, everything changed between Sukumar and Jaya. The sight appalled her. But, it was Sukumar’s indifference towards the whole episode which appalled her the most. The next day he was again found in his reading room drinking.

“Sukumar you need to mend your ways. You’re on bed rest, but still drinking. What’s wrong with you?” Jaya could not stop her irritation. “Leave me alone. I am fine,” is what Sukumar managed to reply back. Present is perfect, future too seems rosy. Then what is wrong with Sukumar. It was his past, a past episode that haunted him.

Sukumar had kept the secret to himself. In the rigmarole of his life it was buried in the deep abyss of memories. He could not believe himself that suddenly it would resurface into the forefront. First it had re-entered into his life. Then slowly it started following him everywhere. Now the secret has taken the form of a shadow in itself. His secret has grown bigger than him.

So, big that it has dwarfed him into a pigmy. Nobody can see him now. He too was almost blind to his surroundings. He left his job. Then Jaya left him with their two children. His house was sold off to pay his surmounting bills. His penury was talk of the corporate circle. Unbelievable, the most shining star of corporate world of Bangalore fading away into oblivion,” his peers would wonder. He however was not surprised. His priorities had changed again.

*************


Sukumar’s regularity at Lion’s Den is a legend by now. He is the most loyal patron of the pub. Earlier he would be the first one to arrive at Lion’s Den every afternoon, and the last to leave at night. As unpaid bills piled on, managerial decision of Lion’s Den barred Sukumar from making his entry.

The ban had no effect on him. He stuck to his routine. Every afternoon he would buy packets of arrack (the cheap local brew) and sit in front of entry point of Lion’s Den and drink to his delight. As a custom he would greet visitors before they could enter Lion’s Den. “Cheers!”

Rain (A SHORT STORY)

I set foot on her city on a partly cloudy afternoon.
The deep dark patches were roaring in agony. I thought the sky would burst into an incessant song and rid of the constant pain before pouring out unrestrained. Strangely, my wish did not come true. In a few minutes, the clouds started dancing, changing their shape and space constantly. But they looked audacious, unrelenting, and perhaps intoxicated in some kind of vague pride, decided to remain there in a state of suspended animation for almost a week, till the time I left her and her city forever. I had gone there to complete some unfinished businesses on behalf of my employers. How was I supposed to know that I would meet a person who would become a constant realisation of things left half done for the rest of my life! While I remained busy slogging and bartering my way to complete the task assigned to me by my employers, she perhaps roamed about the narrow alleys of her city — in search of me.


I did not know she existed, breathed the same air and lived in the same city that would one day become my city in the abode of my mind. I had sensed her presence every moment I stayed in her city, but ignored those incomprehensible thoughts as images built inside the vortex of a tired mind. I thought it was one of those delusionary moments you undergo when left alone in an unknown island with a huge task to accomplish. I had told myself clearly that the purpose of my visit was purely professional and until I bring a logical end to the entrusted work, I would block all visual and auditory sensations from my mind.

However, at times, you have to surrender to unknown realities of life, something never explained in any book of logic. I, too, surrendered to the unknown feeling tickling my senses as she appeared in front of me. Full of life and a smile that was fixed in her eyes... Her appearance was not anything dramatic. She was the way I thought and dreamt her to be, almost exactly. She had a round and plain face, comparatively taller than most Indian women, but it was her deep blue eyes-- unbelievably beautiful—where I almost got lost. Time passed off quickly, five days flew off in a jiffy. All I did was work. At night after coming back to my hotel room, I would open the window to look at the sky. Clouds would hover all over the space. As if the sky had lost its eternal façade of blue. All that remained were huge cotton balls of black and white. Grey would appear intermittently, making it clear that its appearance is needed to keep the mystery of life alive.


I would wonder endlessly, “What was holding back those patches of cloud?” Perhaps, love! My work was almost over and employers happy with my performance, extended my trip for two more days to enjoy the weekend in her city. The e-mail from one of my bosses read, “You are a diligent worker, we are proud of you. Enjoy the weekend in the city before resuming work on Monday.” I was slightly confused, “What do I do in her city? I don’t know a single soul here except for the constant sense of her presence. Is it enough to stay back?” Saturday arrived quietly. The sluggishness of weather outside had seeped inside me. A sense of stillness had fastened me tight, almost like those clouds balancing themselves over the endless sky. “Or, are those thoughts of her too good to wake me up?” I dreamt of dreaming about her dreams again and again. Next day, I remained in my hotel room bed till late in the afternoon.

I had no clue what to do in her city. By now, I could see the ominous black clouds lingering all over the place. They had cried out furiously a few times. But did not rain even then. I had a quick shower. Smoked a few cigarettes over cups of coffee in the hotel Cafeteria, and decided to take a stroll in her city. I greeted children and hawkers on the pavements, lovers lost in each other’s embrace, old women begging at the traffic signal, glassy showrooms selling fashionable clothes from Paris, line of trees washed in dust…I saw what I wanted to see in her city. Then I felt like returning to my room and again take a look outside the window at the same sky and clouds playing hide and seek. However, I decided otherwise and move ahead till I reached a huge patch of green land, something that resembled a park.

There were trees all around it, grass was neatly manicured and the music was loud. Evening had just descended by then and the crowd swelled slowly. A popular rock band was all set to play in sometime. I followed the crowd and found myself amid a huge sea of people, laughing, giggling, shoving each other to find their rightful place and cheer like maniacs to welcome their favourite rock stars. The force pushed me to an admirable place from where I could have a proper view of the podium, still waiting for the musicians to arrive.

Almost when I was intently following the pace of the rushing crowd, I saw her standing next to me. She was quick to greet me, “Hello!” I acknowledged her presence with a smile. For a few seconds I could not believe that she would find her way to reach me. “Or, I was pulled towards her?” “So, you like music?” I was too lost in her gaze, her sweet smell, her constant movement of lips, to satisfy her curiosity. “Yes, but not the crowd.” “Then let us move to our space.” I took a backward turn from the crowd and followed her haphazard steps to quickly rescue ourselves from the clutches of the ever-increasing crowd.


In a few minutes we were outside the park. Vehicles zipped past us. I stood still. She kept her eyes fixed on me. “Come, Let us move out of here,” she smiled and guided me to her car. I was not looking anywhere. Not even at her. But, ended up asking her, “So, we know each other?” “No. Is it needed?” The car started on a jarring note. It moved fast. By now I could make out she is not comfortable behind the wheels. She struggled, at times cursed at the maddening traffic, errant drivers and everything annoying that greeted us on the road. I did not do much. Nor did I ask her anything, quietly followed her like a shadow—almost silent and obedient. After an hour and a half, we had travelled enough. From the landscape staring at us from the window pane I gauged we had reached a suburb. The roads were less burdened with vehicles, human presence and commercial establishment. In between, I had located a few houses, painted in multiple-coloured hues, from the images reflected back by street lights pitched at an equidistant in the entire stretch.

It was almost 9pm, and suddenly I felt discomfort hitting my belly and I realised I was hungry and longed to eat a heavy meal. Perhaps she had sensed my inner craving, and stopped her car near a roadside dhaba. We ordered enough food for the two of us and ate in a state of haste. Then suddenly she started laughing with her mouth full of food. A few grains of food started flying out of her mouth and observing their trajectory, for the first time we looked into each other’s eyes and remained fixed in the gaze. I wanted to know who she was, and asked her name. “What is your name?’ She refused to reveal. “I am you. Do you need to know my name? Call me stranger…” The time which we spent together, mostly inside her car, as we took various routes touching upon couple of villages in the neighbourhood of her city, I tried to know her name several times. And, every time she pretended not to hear me.

All she told me was that she had a daughter and a husband. I thought perhaps she wants to protect her identity, her marriage, and a bit of her life. I did not poke further. For almost an hour or so, we decided to park the car near a secluded place, which perhaps leads to another township. Both of us decided to sleep for a while, before returning back to her city. Her eyes were almost red with tiredness.

We both dozed off. When we woke up my hands were tightly holding her left arm. I quickly freed her of my embrace, fearing an angry retort. As I took my hands off her, she was smiling at me. She came closer and we felt each other’s lips. My fingers moved all over her face, and tears rolling down her cheeks had moistened my palms. I rubbed them dry, but she kept on crying. I could not ask her to stop crying. Nor did she say anything before starting the car engine. Dawn had already arrived and I noted in my mind, it was already Sunday. After more than an hour, we reached the vicinity of her city. She told me, I need to get off her car, and a taxi stand was just five minutes walk from where she dropped me.

I agreed with a nod. Before I could leave her alone in her car, she kissed me hard and handed me a small sheet of paper with a phone number. “My phone number, call me when you feel like.” I walked out of her car, and stood still as she drove past me. I reached the taxi stand, but did not stop and kept walking for almost two hours. My feet started aching and that is when I decided to stop. I sat on the road side as a mild breeze tickled my bone. I looked up at the sky. The clouds were moving fast, they had all broken up into tiny little pieces and looked like a bunch of enthusiastic trekkers climbing a high mountain route. I thought rains were on their way. A bus driver took notice of me and stopped right in front of me. I managed to grab a seat in the awkwardly tiny bus, where around 50-odd people were crammed together, few sitting on each other’s laps, few on the floors even as I saw a few legs dangling from the roof top of the bus, touching the window pane as and when the vehicle negotiated some uncomfortable turn.

The bus stopped after every 15 minutes, as passengers and goods got loaded and unloaded. It seemed like an eternity, I thought this journey would not end soon. I tried to crane my neck out of the window and have a view of the sky. But forces playing all around and fighting a battle to sit and relax inside the bus, which stinking rich with human odour and smiles, left me with little choice. I was looking at them, but all I could see was her face. The face of the stranger that smiled at me, the mouth that kissed me, the arm that took me in hers. Afternoon was humid when I reached my hotel lobby. I ran to my room and dialed the phone number she gave me. It rang for a while and a child answered.

Before I could say hello, the soft voice in an agitated tone revealed, “Mummy is dead. Dad is busy with the police, please call later.” The line got disconnected. I started packing my bag. The weather bulletin later revealed her city received a torrential rain the day I left it forever.

And I let them flow..

It was a Saturday. My afternoon siesta got prolonged till early evening. By the time I woke up from my dormancy, the sky had already hidden itself in darkness. Streetlights at the other end of our neighbourhood were glowing bright. Bereft of the luxury of being decorated itself with street lights, our sector had a composed bearing, shops lining up the street help keep the area illuminated. I got up from my bed with a shudder as if I had a bad dream. But I could not recall the faintest of impressions left behind by it, as dreams in general do. Perhaps it was too good, or too bad. But what was it? I asked myself. I had already started feeling weak, restless and hated the darkness enveloping the room. As a manifestation of that uneasiness, I ran to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. In between, I lit up the entire house by switching on the electric bulbs. I wanted to murder every sense of darkness residing in the deepest corners. The milk came to a boil on the stove and spilled all over as I was trying to recall my dream. Cursing myself, I started wiping the mess with a plain piece of cloth. That is when I could feel warm tears rolling down my cheeks. My eyes soon turned into a river and the vision blurred. The darkness within and light outside fought a mini-battle. I watched them with a sense of detachment. Nothing belongs to me. I am an intruder with limited time. I have nothing to do with either darkness or light. But tears, warm and frosty at the same time, are mine. I cannot deny their presence and something that I had released from my self-imposed imprisonment. It is not easy to give away your own possession, especially something that you have guarded so passionately for a long time. I wondered, are they mine? I started cleaning the sticky salty trail of tears from my face with the corner of my blouse sleeve with the same vigour that I had utilised a few minutes back to wipe out the mess staring at me from the stove. It was a strange feeling — the freedom to cry. I remember it well, it has been ages since I last shed tears. I somehow developed this stoic self, not intentional though. I don’t know what triggered the icy-cold behaviour from me, but it stayed with me for long, till that Saturday, which was just another regular day before the evening, until the embankments guarding my inner fear broke free. Like there is no answer to my stoicism, similarly there is no explanation to what caused sudden ruptures in my eyes. The days preceding that Saturday were usual ones. Nothing striking happened that could be used as an excuse behind the sudden outpour. Was it my past that was still haunting me? My past experiences, where I had cleverly hoodwinked myself to believe that nothing has gone wrong. “It is just a matter of time, all would be fine," is how I kept myself fooling for so long. But nothing changed much. I kept on encountering one hurdle after another, one mishap after another, one heartache after another, one gloomy day after another. However, that adamant smile in my face remained fixed. I thought I look beautiful with my smile. Now, in fact, looking myself closely in the mirror, I look more grotesque. Like the pale shadow of my own image. In the game of survival all I did was pretend and deceit, no one else, but myself, my soul, my whole existence. Realisation dawned late. During winter you cannot ask your body not to ache in pain, and that too, when you are audacious enough to step out naked in the open, ignoring a high intensity blizzard that has already created havoc in your town. Is this ignorance or high-level of understanding which almost translates to self-destruction? “When in pain you should cry." I remember how Montu with his crimson teary-eyed face had once told me about the benefits of crying. "But boys don't cry," I had winked. "Come on! Your feminine soul needs that balm, no need to cross dress," he wasn’t smiling while saying that. I am sure he would have remained the same till today. Even on the day I came to know Montu died of alcoholism, I did not cry. Strange, isn’t it, Montu? Now, when I look back, I feel I behaved strangely. I know, you, too, would have expected me to react with shrill cries. After all, nobody reacts so detached when one’s childhood friend dies in such horrible condition. I heard that you had almost lost your mental compass months before you died. Alcohol did that to you. You had lost your charming self. But they told me that even when you were dead and lying in that coffin, ready to be buried forever, you carried that inimitable smile of yours. All I did after learning your demise was to say a prayer. I still sing that prayer, Montu… almost every day, something like a ritual. I remember it well, how popular you were among girls in school. You had a host of girlfriends… end of one affair would be quickly followed by another. I can’t remember a single day when you had spent without the company of a woman in your life. You used to almost brag about your conquests in front of us, something that would invariably make a few turn red with envy. I used to laugh it out. It was you who told me that love letters are to be written from hearts and not with the help of a dictionary that lies open in front of you. It is the purity of heart that does the magic in love. Every "love letter" written by you, even if for your friends, never failed to do the trick. A host of desperate guys and gals struck by that menacing cupid arrow would turn up at your doorstep to help them write that "perfect" letter to win their love. They used to be hilarious, with lines borrowed from Bollywood flicks, "If you are the moon, I am the moonlight, if I am the sun, you are my sunshine....." A few I heard were written in blood, as lovers took their ultimate vow in the name of love and slit open their arms to let a stream of blood ooze out. Those were rivers. They still flow beneath the mountains of my childhood. It was again you who told me that love and hatred should always be kept apart from each other. We should never try to mix them. To prove your point, you would cite political harakiri committed on part of both Pakistan and India to have peace talks, and border skirmishes going on at the same time. "Either the political leadership thinks we (citizens of both the neighbouring countries) are fools to trust their efforts, or they themselves are fools," you had commented like an expert. "We should know how to love and hate grandly. Otherwise, both turn meaningless," you giggled. Hey, do you remember that girl? I’m sure you do, I have vivid memories of her — the one with curly locks and short gait. I thought she was the real love of your life as you had skipped many a meals to save money to buy the most beautiful and expensive birthday card for her. I thought she, too, loved you honestly, which you often demanded from your sweethearts. But then she failed you. She left you for another guy, a topper and good looking guy from our school. It was a massive blow to you. That is perhaps when you started drinking. I don’t blame the girl for deserting you, leaving your heart all empty, forcing you to take to alcohol. She is what the norm is — to love and admire the best. After all, you were the poor Romeo of our school who often used to flunk in his mathematics paper. I guess you could have been better, putting a little effort in your studies and making a life out of your little-know skills. It is no grand affair to die an alcoholic’s death, Montu. You know I was very critical of you despite being grateful to you for introducing me to so many beautiful things about life like that of the flamboyant game of legendary tennis star Andre Agassi. That time he was known more for his style quotient than his game. But you were convinced, like you were convinced about so many other things, that the long-haired guy with watery eyes is a legend in the making. "Watch him out. He is a true stylist of the game and would change its grammar," you had admiringly told me about Andre. It turned out to be true like a prophecy after a few years. I hope Andre comes to know about you some day. At times I behaved mean. So much so that I didn’t even greet you the last time we met. You were in an “inebriated” state near the town library. I was appalled to see you like that… a few friends were trying to hold you and help you find those staggering footsteps. I gave you an angry stare. But you still did not stop smiling. Why did you do that? I was expecting the same anger and hatred for me in your eyes as I had for you. But, all I saw was innocence of days gone by. I would have appreciated had you shown me some kind of malice in our last meeting. Today, I could have been guilt-free. Guilt has chiseled itself into a stone in me, Montu. It is the same guilt I encountered when I saw my beautiful aunt turning into an apparition of her earlier self, as cancer spread across her body. In her last days, she was forced to wear a wig that had replaced her long tresses. I would go and sit beside her as her son would try to feed her in vain. She would throw up every spoon fed in double the measure. The helplessness in her eyes still follow me everywhere. It has made me a prisoner of myself. All these and many more episodes just piled on me, left me what I thought is the making of a home of an alien inside me. He first came as a visitor, then without any reason decided to stay back. I did not raise any protest against his audacious behavior. Rather, made him a part of my existence. Slowly, he grew more powerful, almost overpowered me, like the tiger overpowering a fragile deer inside a deep forest, where probably human footsteps have never fallen. I just remained a witness, like those crowd that surround a dead body lying on a road, interrupting the traffic flow. Most likely the stranger in a pool of blood is an accident victim. Nobody knows, so curious onlookers make a beeline like flies over a rotten piece of flesh. They are the witnesses to the vulnerability of human existence. But the same witnesses turn into voiceless spectators who quickly return to their world, easily forgetting that a gruesome accident had killed another life. I became one of those witnesses, to witness my own life, as it moved two and fro. I never made tea I so hurriedly got up to make that Saturday evening… there was no milk left for it. I discarded the idea of having black tea as well. Strangely, tears swelled up again in the corner of my eyes. But this time I did not resist. I didn’t make any effort to wipe them off. I went ahead with my chores, washed the stained utensils under the running tap, and clearly saw both my tear drops and soap foam getting mixed and flowing down the gutter.

The train that I never took

Long, long ago in a distant land near the river bed of Brahmaputra, my mother gave birth to me. Since the time I started learning to walk on earth, all I did was till the land and sow it with seeds. The seeds bore us fruits and rice and we happily ate it till the time a hoard of aliens marched into my land. They slowly spread across everywhere, took my land, my fields, my home and of course my luxury of eating freely. I was threatened in my own homeland, and my hungry belly cried in agony. It was in those moments of hunger and deprivation that I decided to leave my land and came to Bangalore with a group of friends. They called it a dream city. I too dared to dream here. My dream turned into a reality and I got job as a security guard in a palatial office near Outer Ring Road in Bangalore. Happily I toiled, saluted all smartly clad English speaking men and women and pretended to protect everyone from any immediate danger. Though I knew it well that with a mere stick in my hand, I would not be even considered as a first line of defence from any prospective threat to the company. I also knew it well I would be the first casualty if any untoward incident happens. But, I know death well enough, so the idea of dying in a freak accident never bothered me. I carried death everywhere, I dared to breathe. It was my familiarity with death that the factor of sharing any kind of repulsion against death never occurred to me. Death has always been a revelation to me, a constant reminder that tomorrow everything might come to an end. Why tomorrow? Maybe, now itself, the very moment we are interacting and sharing our thoughts in this chaotic space of life. I have seen and cried in great pain as my brethren died in bomb blasts and army encounters with constant regularity. I tell you, when one dies, the body looks no less than a huge chunk of flesh soaked in blood. Eyes would be always looking at a distant land. Perhaps in those unreachable track of land lies death -- silent and shy -- as it devoured my innocence in the wake of the killing of people whom I had loved and lost unabashedly. Death could not stop my hunger for living. I am thick-skinned, just greedy enough to complete the cycle of life I am blessed with. I have intelligently packed my losses and sorrows in a suitcase of agony. I never dared to open it, it carries a storm. And I know once opened, it would leave behind a trail of death and destruction. I fear not death, but yes, hunger creating storm in my belly and frowns in the faces of my loved ones. That is why I travelled more than 2000 km to provide security and safety to strangers, when I have never known or experienced the idea of a protected life in my own homeland. Farce it is, farce it was, and I feel like a joker in the entire act. So, when I was offered the job of a security guard, the absurdity of the task entrusted to me hit me hard. “Am I the right person for the job?” The shadow of doubt never ceased to leave me. It kept clouding and clogging my mind and heart for long. “Me --- defenceless, vulnerable, unprotected --- can I protect others?” I knew the answers well. I am and was not the right person to watch over others. But options were few and far between. So, I decided to listen to pangs of hunger devouring me. And, gladly accepted what was offered to me. That day I adorned the uniform of a security guard. I was given a sky blue shirt with the name of the security agency which hired me embossed on it with black and a pair of black trousers. I was also given a stick and a whistle, as accessories to highlight my poor bearing. I managed to stand out in the crowd. After all, the crowd entering the campus of the office could not afford to ignore my presence. That gave me some importance. I too basked in the glory. All of a sudden, people started acknowledging my reality. But deep in it embedded the reality of my existence. I was just a face — a chowkidar, a security guy who was supposed to get up from his creaky wooden chair every time people would enter and exit the building. They addressed me as bahadur, bhaiyya, and at times oyee too. And, happily I acknowledged them with my smile. Here I stayed, remained glued to my job, which fetched me Rs 10,000 every month after a decade-long loyalty. I was doing well, sending money to my ailing mother and two brothers for whom I was the only support system. That was my only motivation and pride that pushed me through all agony and hardships. In my dream city, I had a shack too. Not so long ago, I shared it with my friends. We used to cook, eat and sing songs of land left behind in unison. Occasionally, my lover would visit me. Her sweet notes of love would always impregnate the four walls of my dilapidated structure with a sticky aroma of desire, even long after she would leave behind my naked apparition with a renewed longing. My home had a leaky roof with a few holes decorating it with systematic regularity. Those gaps turned me into a stargazer. Up there in the sky lie the stars and nebulae. The universe was a fast expanding phenomena. I too was part of the growth. I might be the tiniest of the tiniest, but none the less, part of the greater life and its never- ending saga. In my confined life, I would always find excuses to make it meaningful in my own absurd ways. Nonetheless, I tried to survive and I deserve the credit of being a survivor. The monotonous existence almost made me believe that things would remain same forever. But change is perhaps the only constant. I experienced it again and again and I won’t deny that would happen to me again. That day my friend called me, and told me he was leaving Bangalore. The urgency in his voice was palpable. He insisted me to pack my bags immediately, as hundreds and thousands were leaving. All he said was the train would take thousands to Assam. “We would be safe if we can manage to catch the train.” As soon as my friend disconnected the line, I got a call from an old relative of mine from my homeland. All he did was cried. It was a cry filled with mourning. He was mourning the death of my mother and two brothers. The hut in my village had been burnt down and the fire devoured three of them. All they could manage to collect were a few skeletal remains of the dead persons. I remained silent. He too asked me when was I coming back home. I went to the railway station and waited for my friend to arrive. He arrived with a group of 20-odd acquaintances. They were all set to board the train. The train looked like a slaughterhouse packed with some clueless animals for the journey they had no idea about. In the melee as I was pushed inside the train by force exerted on me from all sides, I gathered all my strength and jumped out of the train. I cannot travel to collect the ashes of those whom I had left behind long back. I decided not to board the train. “If death has to come, it can come anywhere,” I told myself. “A displaced soul like me can never have a home. I have to make home wherever my destiny would take me. I just cannot leave my space in Bangalore which I have won in the past 10 years,” I repeatedly told myself. (This is the story of Surjeet Brahma (name changed). I met him at Bangalore City Railway Station, the day when thousands of people belonging to various parts of Northeast India left Bangalore. I was there to find out if any of my acquaintances were boarding the train. Like Surjeet I, too, did not board the train. Like him I, too, had my own reasons. Not all are lucky enough to find shelter in the safe confines of their homes. Some people don’t have a space called home, they are homeless. And we both have accepted that in different ways.)

Richard and Richard

My name is Richard. No, no, I am not Richard Loitham, the 19-year-old Manipuri teenager who died recently in Bangalore under mysterious circumstances. But we both share many things in common besides our first name. The slain architecture student was not just my namesake and I discovered the similarities in the past few weeks. Mysteriously, just like his death, all these things were previously unknown to me and came out in the open recently. But sadly, he is no more alive to discover the similarities. Or, may be I should say fortunately? I don’t know. I’m in a state of daze, actually. Like Richard, I, too, was born in Imphal. Like Richard, I am also a 19-year-old. Again, like Richard, I, too, am a student in Bangalore. The commonalities are growing in number each day, as I am discovering new aspects about Richard, the one who was hitherto unknown to me. However, the only striking dissimilarity in our existence (his tragic non-existence) is that he is dead, and I am alive. The thought simply sends chill down my spines. What if I (Richard) were dead, instead of him (Richard)? I have reflected on the same question again and again, but failed to get any answer so far. With so many questions remaining unanswered, I am hugely shaken by his death. I am yet to overcome my fear that Richard is dead. Probably that Richard could have been me. I cannot imagine my dead body with scars and blood marks all over it lying abandoned in a little corner of a hospital awaiting dissection. I never met Richard in my life. Neither was I aware that a person by the name of Richard Loitham existed in this world. I came to know about him only after he was dead. News reports flashed everywhere acquainted me with him. Initially, it saddened me. A fellow Manipuri allegedly killed by students of his own college was something hard for me to swallow down. As days passed by and I followed my genuine intrigue to find out more about my namesake, I slowly developed a strange connection with him. These days, I often think “I and Richard are alike, like twin brothers, living similar lives but different fates”. In fact, I was flooded with phone calls and text messages from friends, family and acquaintances to inquire about my well-being since most mistook me to be the slain Richard. That is when my fear turned into a reality of grotesque proportions. The monster of fear buried deep inside came out into the open and started having regular conversations with me. “So, I was not wrong. Your near and dear ones are also worried about your well-being. That means your fear is not at all unsubstantiated. Richard it could have been you — dead and mourned by all,” my fear would softly whisper into my ears. I would listen to my fear for a while. Then scream. “Go away, go away… leave me alone.” Fear, so much internalised by now, would resurface again with a vengeance, more fearsome than ever. “So my dear Richard, what would have happened to your parents learning about your brutal end?” my fear would tease me. In those long conversations, I had completely lost myself. I had stopped interacting with the outside world. For several days, I kept myself locked in my one bedroom flat. No college, no friends, no outing, I was consumed by the Richard phenomena. I would ask myself. “Why was he killed? Why is it taking so long to establish the exact cause of his dead? Was he killed because he belonged to the alienated land of northeast India?” I know, in the Northeast, especially in Manipur, mysterious death of young people is as common as having three meals a day. So, people back home consume such news just like any routine event in a day. In Manipur, we have almost as many insurgent (outlawed) groups as the combined age of Richard and Richard — the number of outfits is 30, to be precise, and our combined age 38. So, all young men and women in Manipur (the entire northeast for that matter) are prospective terrorists, especially when “special laws” like Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act (AFPSA) makes a mockery of living in a ‘free country’. The shroud of “disturbed area” tag engulfs the entire northeast India, almost since the Indian republic got its independence. On mere suspicion, people are arrested and killed at point blank by the law enforcing agencies in our region. Please, don’t think I am cribbing. I’m just wondering (aloud) how did the Central government, which is always short of time and concern when it comes to affairs related to the Northeast, manage to formulate such great a law (AFPSA) to rule and govern only the Northeast, though later on extended to Jammu and Kashmir. It is true Northeast is hit by militancy, but tell me about one place in India where crime and killings don’t take place. You can’t. But I can tell you that nowhere else in India, common citizens have to prove themselves to be law-abiding citizens of the nation every day. Survival for the northeastern people, unlike others from the rest of the country, is not a mere permutation and combination of earning and spending. Our struggle is deep-rooted in myriad complexities, not even easy for us to understand, forget about explaining it to the rest of the world. Our helplessness has taken the form of silence and now we all are dumbfounded. A few who want to break the shackles of the age-old silence at times drift to the wrong side of the law. They pick up the guns, as you know free-flow of blood in the northeast is not a new revelation. However, there are a few who are still hopeful and that hope helps cross many hurdles at times. Perhaps, that is one of the reasons why thousands of youngsters move out to mainland India in search of education and livelihood every year. And in this mass migration from the far-flung areas, a couple of years back two Richards had left their homes as well with dreams of a rosy future. Future is a tricky anticipation, forget good or bad. When our very identity and idea of existence is questioned frequently, present becomes more important, especially when it turns unbearable. At a time when one Richard is dead, the other Richard is mulling about his existence. Is it worth taking the risk to leave our families and homes for a future beyond our control? “Better to die in our homeland, then to travel thousands of kilometres to get ourselves killed,” I fret sitting in my bed, staring endlessly at the ceiling, whose colour has given way to dark semi-circular structures left by incessant rain. Once in a while I stand in front of the looking glass and examine myself minutely. My eyes are small, and turn smaller, whenever I try to smile. But trust me, I don’t suffer from myopia. I can see my world clearly. And it the same pair of eyes which draws criticism. People who don’t look like me facially think they can see clearer. They feel I can’t see most of the things happening around me, but strangely it’s their parochial view that is blinding. During such moments, I see things my way. “Why don’t we have the courage to accept diversity?” Anyway, I cannot help it if they want to see only faces who represent them. I cannot turn into a clown or clone myself. Here I bask in my ‘different appearance’, even if that attracts scorn from others. With these thoughts flooding my mind every day, I decided to take a break. “Let me not think for a while. Let me be myself.” I took a walk in the narrow lanes of my neighbourhood. As I stepped ahead, I crossed my neighbourhood and went further and further. For almost two hours I walked endlessly in various corners of the city. Seeing what I mostly miss, soaking myself in the summer heat and almost assimilating in a crowd which is as mixed and strikingly different as colours of a rainbow. “Yes, I am a part of the rainbow crowd.” My next destination was the newly opened Bangalore metro. I hopped onto it. From hundreds of metres above the ground, I saw the city in a different perspective. Everything looked strangely beautiful and scenic. I tried to savour the goodness unfolding right in front of me. I know once I get down from my elevated status, reality would greet me again. I would be Richard again, not Richard Loitham, but the Richard who is somewhere deeply hurt and feels alienated.

Home is where the heart is and the heart longs only for a home

Home is an idea, a desire, a dream, at times. I foolishly look for it everywhere. Once I ended up in a public lavatory thinking it to be my home. Actually, I dozed off on the Italian marble floor of the deserted public toilet for almost two hours. Perhaps, I was snoring hard. Alarmed by the unusual noise emanating from the wash room, the cleaner came to check in. Her initial reaction was a scream, finding a huge body lying almost unconscious on the floor. Her shock was enough to wake me up. I was bemused at my own state. I apologised, saying I was feeling giddy after a heavy lunch and took the afternoon siesta. The creases in her face turned into a faint smile, she wished me luck for my future adventures. I bade her goodbye. In those two hours, I slept for a million years. That public lavatory is one of my many homes. I have built many homes, in many places, in many times, though mostly temporary arrangements. Finding a permanent solution is still an ambition to be arrived at. No, I don't dream of a beautiful cottage overlooking the snow-laden ranges of Himalayas, where I had spent bits and parts of my childhood, to be my home. Neither, do I attempt to turn a boat into a house to be ferried across the river Brahmaputra, when spring breeze would be at its modest best. No, nor, do I secretly aspire to own a three-bedroom flat, in a posh locality of Bangalore, my present abode. Then, what do I crave for? The answer is simple, a home. In that simple basic aspiration of mine, many complex narrations lie hidden beneath. Deep they are, started when I was a toddler. I could not get enough time to reconcile to the fact that born in the family of a gypsy, a home can be, and often is under the blue sky. Holding hands of my parents, I grew up crossing hundreds of miles of Rajasthan desert with a thirsty throat, was once lost in a crowded street of Bombay (now, they call it Mumbai), had enjoyed mouthwatering Chinese noodles in a Calcutta (again, it has mutated into Kolkata) restaurant, had bathed naked in the icy water of the Ganges in the December chill, all of them have housed me, nurtured me, whispered me into my youth, now I am proudly glowing in my old age. The shimmering grey in my hair is a testimony to my present reality. The wrinkles are now taut and adamant whenever I smile in amusement. By the time father built a home for us and settled down, as signalled by his cracked heels, I was pushed to move again, in search of the unknown. They say gypsies are not supposed to stay affixed in a land. Trees are the only rooted objects. That is why they are so quiet and sombre. An animated soul should literally fly. Taking a walk is a mild exercise. They should explore continents, rivers, mountains, deserts, and if possible sky, explore till their feet give away, and dirt-laden cracked heels cry in agony, "time to rest." I often look at my cracked heels, and converse with them, "time to retire, right?" The answer would be as always, "miles and miles away, before home is to be found." I would rebuke, "Bloody hell! I am tired. Permit me to end my journey." All I would encounter was silence—a deafening silence. I can understand their annoyance at my repeated questioning. Obsession, as they say, mostly sprouts from deprivation. As I find everyone and everybody owing and possessing a house of their own--even if it is raised on four bamboo poles and a flimsy piece of polythene sheet above the structure--I long to master a home. I wish to rule myself for a while. Somewhere I am tired of being too free, lost, and wandering aimlessly. And, it is in those intense moments of too much longing, that I want to surrender myself to the comforts of the four walls of a home. I do realise, I have, but no luxury of a home. But, I have many homes, what if I don't own them, possess them, master them, but I have lived in them, and they too have lived many lives with me. Now, don't ask, how could I be so sure? Arrey! They have all whispered to me, told me in those lazy hours of life, that in living a few hours of togetherness in silence is next only to a pilgrimage. The arithmetic of ownership is beyond the comprehension of even a genius. After all, I have always proudly flunked in my mathematics exam year after year in my school. So, going back to calculation would be another attempt of indulging in foolishness, and that too at a time, when I want to prove myself smarter in front of my mirror image, at least. So, here I surrender my urge of owning and possessing. I am free again. Vagabonds for sure, if not anything else know how to keep themselves away from proprietary rights. It is absolutely hassle-free. Perhaps, all these years, I have not looked beyond searching for a home. Perhaps, the temporary or insecure nature of my home was bothering me a lot. I was so much fixated with the idea of finding a permanent address, that I had forgotten to enjoy the many roofs and ceilings under whose shadow I was allowed to dream my weirdest of dreams, at times I had nightmares too. In many homes I live, in many lives I live. I live in air, water, desert, sky and moon (not impossible, India's Chandranayan mission is after all a realisation to that aspiration). Next time, I won't dare to ponder over my homelessness state. After all, I claim to possess almost everything nature could ever offer me. But, perhaps, I will ponder again, question lack of a secure environment, when I would be thrown out, or treated as an alien in someone's land (home), in sometime.

Sit-a-round and talk about how lame we really are

Today I met Sita in the crowded bus stop of Shivajinagar. She was not in her usual attire — saree --- and was wearing a burqa, almost concealing her true self behind the shade of black.

But, the glint in her eyes got her caught red-handed as for the first time I could recognise the real woman.

After all, it was the flash point, where the epic battle of Ramayana was fought. As soon as I recognized, immediately I went near her, and touched her feet in obeisance. She warned me not to. I stepped back.

“Don’t make it obvious. I am tired of human devotion without any cause,” she said.
Once again I was quick, and asked for her forgiveness. The gentle soul, as she has always been, smiled at me. I gauged she was no more angry. I smiled back and inched closer to her.

“Where are you headed for?” I asked.

“Wherever you want to take me, I am at your mercy.”

“Good”.

We boarded the 330, which was partially empty.

Once comfortably seated, she removed the veil from her face.

“Why are you hiding yourself?” I enquired.

“Scared?” I further probed.

“No, I am tired of being Sita.”

“Hmm..”

“But, you are a goddess, the wife of great lord Rama. You epitomise womanhood. You have set a benchmark for all women to be followed. You tell us that true womanhood lies in the ability to make supreme sacrifice for the sake and prestige of one’s husband and family.”

She flashed a sarcastic smile.

“Isn’t it tiring to be always obedient and submissive?” she questioned.

“When have I been allowed to express myself fully? My true potential does not lie in following someone else’s dictates. I could have offered more to myself, and women who look upon me as their idol. But, I was denied to do so often.”

I remained quiet. She was breathing fast, as if angry over her character sketch.

“So, you want more to add to your character graph?” I smiled.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Say suppose, you are my creator, tell me how would sketch my character?”

I paused for a while. My thoughts were veering to blasphemy.

“I don’t want to offend those who worship you,” I replied.

“So what? Tell me?”

“Feel free to express yourself. Give me a new look, a new lease of life,” she insisted.

“Then listen.”

“Had I been your creator, I would have made you fall in love with Ravana, the demon god. He loved you, and had the guts to abduct you, without fearing any consequences. In fact, he ruined himself for you. He had never harmed you, even when he kept you under captivity. When rumours were rife about your purity, your husband did not protect you. In order to save his power, he punished you to second exile at a time when you were expecting.”

“I would have made you stand against your husband and assert your rights, and probably would have orchestrated a divorce. I would have never made you sit on a pyre of fire as part of Agni Pariksha (fire ordeal) to prove your innocence. Once the seed of doubt engulfs the corridors of a marriage, nothing can save it. And, I find it ridiculous on the part of your husband to listen to his subjects’ demand, questioning your integrity. Probably, he was more in love with his power and position, and that is why never defended you.”

“Hope I have not hurt you by sketching you a rebel,” I apologised.

She was looking intently at me, her eyes sparkling bright.

“You’re right. This is perhaps my real self, which I too have ignored for long. That is why I was feeling so suffocated?”

“Now, I am relieved. In a way you have thrown light on my true self, hidden deep in the abyss of so-called tradition and culture.”

These were the last words said by Sita before she disembarked midway in the journey near HAL airport.

As the bus zoomed past the airport, where few Indian air force helicopters were conducting test drive, I also saw one burqa clad woman running amok on the runway.

(This is my answer to the question posed to me by a woman who wanted to know if I have read the Ramayana. She had the audacity to ask me “who is the hero (nayak) of Ramayana”? I don’t know, why she wanted to know that. Either she thought I am too modern (read atheist) to bother about religious texts like Ramayana, or an illiterate and have no clue what the great epic is all about. When I was confronted with the two questions, I was too shocked to reply. After due thought, I can say one thing very confidently, Ram was certainly not the hero of Ramayana. I would like to anoint either Sita or Ravana as the heroes of the epic.)

The loner and his follower

It was a rare sight. In fact, rarest of the rare I would like to call the entire episode, just like witnessing an eclipse as amateurs and professionals hail the celestial event with great bonhomie.

At a time when everything moves at a maddening pace and you find someone leisurely taking a stroll on the central business district of Bangalore, all you can do is to notice the phenomenon unveiling right in front of you.

I clearly remember the first time I saw him near ASC Centre and College in 2008. He was standing near the footpath, smoking a bidi, and his flowing grey mane caressed by the autumn breeze. He had a fixed smile, eyes looking somewhere at a distance, where probably we “normal” mortals can never reach. He was holding a jhola bag, his white T-shirt was almost brown as layers of dirt and grime accumulated in the passage of time. Completing his overall persona with his tattered jeans, he had that look from the rock-n-roll era of 80s.

I was pleasantly surprised, finding someone in busy Bangalore so lost in his own world. I thought he was a traveller who has accidentally stumbled on the city roads. I was sure he had set out for another destination, somewhere far, as far as the Thar Desert or Antarctica. He did not look like a native. The true inhabitants of a city are always cocksure souls. Their gait and posture always carry an aplomb. They can never be so unsteady and nervous.

Sitting in the bus, waiting for the traffic to get cleared, I was intently looking at him from the window. He had clearly noticed me. But, was smart enough to avoid me.

It did infuriate me. In a knee-jerk reaction, I decided to look at him more closely, trying to get that elusive eye-contact, to further our non-verbal conversation. In those few seconds, I succeeded. He looked back and smiled at me. I acknowledged his generosity as my bus moved ahead to the cacophony of city life. I tried to keep my gaze fixed at him till I lost sight of him.

Almost a week later, I saw him again. This time we met at the ever-crowded Majestic bus station. It was unexpected but I instantly recognised him. He was wearing the same clothes, but a brown cap resting on his head was an addition. He was sitting on a bench, sipping tea from a glass. As soon as I disembarked from the bus, I wanted to go near and greet him. But the crowd behind pushed me to a corner. By the time I could steady, he had already left the place. I searched for him for a while but I was in a hurry to catch another bus for another destination. So, I left but his sight haunted me throughout the day. I kept wondering, Who is this man?”No, no, he cannot be a traveller. Or else, by now, he would have left the city. Then, who’s he?

He looked so different. But still so common, almost maintaining his anonymity in the crowd. He had that look of a lunatic man who had probably run away from the asylum. Or, is he the urban monk, the legend of which I had read?

All he remained for me was an enigma, a bunch of unanswered queries. As time passed by, and cycle of season changed its moods, he too steadily faded out of my mind just like hundreds of unknown faces whom I encounter every day and immediately forget about them.

But there are coincidences and I do believe in them. Almost two years later, what I saw again proved me right once again. I saw him, standing right in front of me, as I was sifting through the pages of a biography of a successful business tycoon on an MG Road footpath stall.

“Don’t buy this. I bet you won’t enjoy the book,” he advised.

I could not agree with him more. But, to strike a conversation, I decided to disagree.

“He is one of India’s richest men, a rag-to-riches story. I am certain, it would be inspiring,” I replied.

“If you want to be rich, money-wise, then go ahead. I won’t stop you,” he smiled.

I looked at him. I was thinking how could he know what I was looking for? As if he had caught me lying to myself, trying to ape anyone and everyone to be accepted by the society at large.

“You should read what you enjoy the most. You don’t have to be somebody else. You’re beautiful in your own skin. Now, I have to go. Have a good-day.”

Once again he left me alone, as the crowd around swelled like a huge reptile devouring me into a deep dark pit. I was blind for a few seconds. Almost blind, I could see and locate nothing, but a vast road, somewhere in the unknown, waiting and telling me to embark on. I wanted to talk, ask so many questions to him. “Who are you? What do you do? Why are you so elusive?”

But, who could stop a wandering soul, the mild evening breeze crooned to me. “Let him go. In his journey lies the answers of life.”

If he belongs to abstraction of life, my reality too is nothing short than accepting the truth. I did not attempt to run after him (which I could have easily done). Rather I let him go. But I was sure he would come back, maybe after ages. Maybe then we would talk, strike a conversation when all my queries would be answered.

I returned to myself once again, trying not to think about him further. However, waves of thoughts kept hitting me, making me wet to the skin in the process.
“There are many pressing things to be addressed in life. Does a vagabond deserve so much of my attention and time?” I questioned.

My wandering mind did not comply with any of the profoundly popular logic or reasoning. I decided to let my mind take a walk where roads have no definite destinations. After all, it’s the journey that matters, destination is anyway guaranteed. What we encounter in a journey that matters. The surprises, difficulties, pain, hidden sorrow and joy, and ultimately the calmness that embraces you as you reach the destination you have been seeking so hard.

I wanted to enjoy the process of travelling for the time being. He did keep on frequenting my thoughts now and then. At times we would converse. Mostly, I would question him with my child-like curiosity, while he answered with lot of promises. His convincing answers would even make me belief in non-existent things. Though I know the thin line bordering the wall governing the realms of reality and dream, this time I decided to surrender myself to the unknown.

A state of hallucination always engulfed me and it never looked bad even when I did not meet him after that.

But, once in a while, he talks to me in his inimitable style. He sings to me, whispers incoherently, as always taking me by surprise.

“Your nomad is discovering new lands and places, and meeting lots of interesting people. I am sure you would have liked them too, like I am enjoying now. Do join me sometime. And yes, don’t be sad. I am here only, right beside you. The other day, when you saw the elderly man sitting in gay abandon in the empty bus bay, lost in his own thoughts, I was there too. I saw you, noticing the old man keenly. By now, I know you well. Your love for unnoticed and unattended things is quite profound. Perhaps that is why you have found me. Generally people don’t notice me, even when I stand right in front of them. You in a way discovered me in the midst of a crowd. Before I met you, I almost started believing that I have become non-existent, like the invisible man. You gave me visibility, and I am sure you too have re-discovered yourself once again through my prism.”

(If anyone of you ever comes across the wanderer described in the above post do inform me. I am desperately looking for him.)

Musings of a lonely traveller

It was unlikely that I would have embarked on a journey that I had not planned for in my wildest of dreams. But, you’ve been adamant. You wanted me to travel across the space -- alone and lost. You planned and packed everything for me, and bade me goodbye, saying that it was my journey and you cannot accompany me.

Deep inside, I wanted a company, the horror of travelling alone and touching upon unknown destinations in the midst of strangers are experiences I would love to forget. So, I wanted you to be with me. I wanted you to be my travel mate with whom I would have shared silences of mysterious distances. Distances as experiences suggest are mostly long, tedious and bereft of any familiarity.

Once in a while when you’re intoxicated with the idea of adventure, it is fine to be alone and travelling. The sense of adventure touches the crescendo, and your gregarious self becomes unabashedly shameless. It does not even bother before interrupting love-struck couple engaged in deep conversation of hearts to show them the ugliest pair of high heels you have bought from a flea market during your last vacation stint.

Of course, such efforts do manage to hold two seconds of glances laden with astonishment from strangers. But losing meaning to absurdity should be avoided at times. One should not stoop so low that your innocent act of attracting attention is construed as stepping into someone else’s privacy. That is actually bad, I would say, really bad.

That is when you realise that travelling alone, that too often, subconsciously affect your psychological bearing, which in turn turns you into a neurotic, to be mocked and ridiculed by unknown faces with whom you try your best to build a rapport. Such attempts do not work often. After all, most of the times, your co-passengers have partners to share the jig-jaw puzzle ride of a journey.

After a while, all you do is end up praising even the most moribund of landscape, dry and barren, as the most natural and rustic beauty you have ever come across. Such is the fate of loneliness that you don’t even think twice before blurting out the dumbest of comments not often associated with normal human behaviour. Insanity? Yes, insanity of unparalleled match that builds and grows every day in your mind and heart when all you have for companionship is loneliness.

I detest that perversion of loneliness. I don’t express my opinion often in regard to people like us who are abandoned in the embrace of loneliness. That is why in a bus jostling for space is often so silent that even human groans are perceived as usual playful acts staged by your stomach after a heavy meal? That is why perhaps, pain and its nemesis called happiness are measured in equal contempt. We all have become so immune to emotional outbursts that silence is what we encounter in every destination.

Otherwise, how could it be possible that even after travelling together for hundreds of miles two strangers leave each other as unknown faces at the end of the journey?

However, if you consider the same situation in a slightly different way there lies another beauty. Isn’t it good that after travelling together for several hours in the same train compartment, surreptitiously sharing glances, even if not sharing mundane details like your respective destinations, you both leave each other without ever expecting to meet again in another journey, to cover another distances?

There lies the thread of linking strangers. They are generous people, and set each other free from any bond. So, at times, I feel more strongly for strangers, as they don’t force upon me any session of questions and answers.

In my latest journey, which is your gift to me, I decided not to try hard to befriend any stranger whom I am mostly likely to stumble upon. I, for sure, would meet many people. But, I am adamant and to be the most stoic of strangers during the entire journey. I am going to give a tough competition to other stony strangers whom I am going to meet on my way.

Even if the elderly gentleman holding a newspaper, sitting next to me in the bus expresses his disgust in regard to latest “porngate” scandal rocking Bangalore, all I would do is give him a cold blank look. That would obviously silence him till he covers his entire journey. Or, it might happen that from next time onwards whenever he boards a bus, he would maintain complete silence, as a mark of respect to his co-passengers.

After all, city buses are meant to cover the annoying hours of life in Bangalore. They are no social clubs to befriend people. So, such pervasive silence thickening the red, blue and brown (or is it something else)-coated walls of buses is a well-established rule.

I am saying this with hell lot of confidence, which only a veteran like me of many bus journeys across the length and breadth of the city could ever possess. But then exceptions do happen, and I too have been blessed with befriending men, women and children, when they have opened their hearts to me, and shared those secrets which they perhaps cannot share with their loved ones. After all, they knew that I am just another co-passenger like several other thousands of them whom they had encountered in a bus, guaranteeing them not to meet again.

It is just that I carry secrets of a few strangers whose names I had never bothered to ask.

That is why I love big bursting cities, the anonymity they give you. Even the ice-layered Himalayan ranges from childhood memories had shared their names and addresses with me. They often used to visit me in my courtyard and my mother was always generous enough to offer them chai and biscuits. When you are a resident of a valley surrounded by mountain cliffs, all you have for friends are the mountains.

In small towns of India, a stranger is only a prisoner, kept secluded behind the walls of a mini jail, manned by the lone policeman, whose son is again a friend.

When Happy Prince visits a violence ravaged land

Even in his wildest dreams, Oscar Wilde would have never imagined that Happy Prince and his close confidant little Swallow (two of Wilde’s most adorable characters) from his famous short story “The Happy Prince” would one day land up in Manipur, a trouble torn geo-political structure in India.

But, they did, the two do-gooders, when they came for a pilgrimage on Earth, they decided to visit a place which has been ignored the most, even when it suffers the most.

As they entered Imphal, the state capital of Manipur, all they saw was Indian armed forces lining on the road, as long as it gets. The long queue of jawans in fatigues and bandanaas, created a hallucination like feeling for the visitors. They are spread everywhere. As if trees of a particular height are being planted all over the place, holding their rifles with great pride.

But what Happy Prince and little Swallow missed the most is the hurly-burly of civilian population, which generally provides the first impression of a place.

“Where are the people?” whispered little Swallow.

Cabbie Suresh, a local Manipuri youth, who was ferrying the visitors from Imphal airport to a hotel, smiled at the question raised right in front of him.

“This is Manipur. A bandh is on, and a blockade at national highways. How could you expect people on road? Everything is closed here. Since you are special, our state guests, so we are moving on the road without any restrictions,” Sunil answered.

Swallow got more curious.

“Is the situation that bad? I know, Manipur is a violence affected area, killings and counter-killings among militant groups and army is a general trend, but never thought life would be missing in Imphal. It is a sad sight,” softly muttered little Swallow.

The desolate roads and closed shutters of shops dotted across Imphal created an eerie feeling. Happy Prince moaned within, and closed his eyes, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Sunil tried to console his bereaving guests.

“Please, don’t cry! I know it is difficult for a sensitive person like you to experience such a situation. But truth is always harsh, and we Manipuris (as people of Manipur are commonly addressed as) are living a painful existence. Life is difficult here, and we have accepted it,” Suresh elaborated.

In order to calm down the situation, and make his guests comfortable, Suresh turned on the local Manipuri FM radio channel. A sweet female voice crooned love notes, expressing her desire to be in the arms of her man, whom she did not meet for few years.

“This is a beautiful voice. What is she singing about?” asked Swallow.

“This is a love song, a woman longing to get re-united with her lover. Now, you must be thinking, love in Manipur? Is it practical? But, then love has always defied all norms, so does Manipuri people. In spite of everything, we Manipuris have not forgotten to fall in love, and experience the most beautiful thing in nature,” Suresh smiled.

Suresh further cheered his visiting friends.

“Get yourself ready for the evening, I will take you to a party,” Suresh announced.

“What? Party?” Swallow questioned.

“Yes, I will take you to Manipur Sangai Festival, a yearly ritual underway at Hafta Kangjeibung, Palace compound. The 10-day-long festival showcases everything beautiful about Manipur. Be it art, culture, indigenous sports, eco and adventure sports, to scenic natural beauty of our land, everything is at display in the carnival,” said Suresh, as he took his permission to leave, promising to treat them in the evening.

Evening came as another surprise for Happy Prince and Swallow. As always, Happy Prince was quiet, expressing himself only when he felt the most. Swallow took the lead in inter-mingling with everyone he met, opining on issues and concerns of the state, making large numbers of friends on his way.

On a complete contrary note, as whatever Happy Prince and Swallow had witnessed at their arrival in Imphal, festival in the evening was choc-o-bloc with people.

“Entire Manipur has descended here. They don’t get such as an opportunity every day, so making most of it,” explained Suresh, as he guided the duo through the festival venue.

Seeing people, from all age groups—beautiful women in their traditional fineries, men holding their little ones in laps, to youngsters in latest fashionable clothes, everything looked normal now. A smile spread across the face of Happy Prince. He smiled for the first time, after he reached Imphal.

“This is beautiful, life at its spirited best. I love this. God bless Manipur,” Happy Prince muttered his prayer.

But, Swallow was concerned.

“What if there is a bomb planted here? With such huge turnout, the place could be a prospective target for anti-social elements,” said Swallow.

“Yes, yes, why not? But risk is our constant companion. We play hide-seek with risk. Sometimes we win, sometimes risk,” agreed Suresh.

In fact, on last day of the festival (November 30), a bomb went off just near the entrance of festival venue. Thankfully, it was during morning hours, and public presence was very negligible, helping in restricting death toll.

However, a rickshaw-puller who was hired by a little-known militant group to carry the bomb inside the festival venue was killed in the incident.

Next morning, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to take a stroll on the roads of Imphal, to understand the valley better.

Again similar situation greeted them. Deserted streets, closed shops, and few vehicles plying on roads, were enough to give the impression of situation at ground. Human presence was almost negligible, all that was there was army marching on the road.

“Is this a war zone?” Swallow wondered.

“I guess, worse than that. No war, but still fear of a war is lingering on. Fear is a silent killer. It can make anyone go insane,” Happy Prince regretted.

On their way near Kangla Fort-- the seat of erstwhile Manipuri King and former home to the Assam Rifles—they met a child, carrying a bottle of milk in his hand.

Happy Prince and Swallow greeted the kid.

“How are you, little one?” asked Swallow.

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“What are you doing here,” asked Happy Prince.

“I have been to my Uncle’s place to get some milk for my little brother. Milk is very expensive. Everything is very expensive here. My mother cannot afford to buy milk for us. My brother is sick, I want him to drink some milk,” said the boy, holding the bottle close to his chest.

They learnt during their stay in Imphal that due to regular blockades everything in Manipur is beyond the reach of commoners. When in rest of India, a gas cylinder costs around Rs. 450, in Manipur during 120 days of blockade the price went up to Rs 2000. The difference between the “mainstream” India and tiny state in the Indo-Myanmar border is huge.

Forget about its precarious geographical location, or the distance that separates it from rest of India, problems of Manipur is a reflection of neglect being meted to the state and its people since ages.

“What happened sweetheart? Your father?” questioned Happy Prince.

“My father is dead. He was mistaken as a militant, and was shot dead by the army. My mother has no job. She stitches clothes for people, whenever she gets an order. Money is always a problem for us,” boy said, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Happy Prince started searching himself all over, if any thin leaves of fine gold are still left in his body. But, unfortunately, all his body was dull and grey, bereft of all previous possessions.

He had nothing to give to the boy. So, saddened was Happy Prince, he almost cursed himself.

All he could afford to do was took the boy in his lap and kissed him on his cheeks. The boy bade goodbye, and marched his way towards his home.

As they continued their walk, they came across famous Ima Keithel or Women’s Market, where few brave women entrepreneurs were doing brisk business.

The beauty of the Ima Keithel is that thousands of mothers “Imas” run the place.

At one corner of the huge market, an old mother with her handloom products was eagerly looking for buyers, to purchase her products.

“Good to see you. How are you?” greeted Swallow.

“I am fine. But, you’ve come at a wrong time. The Market is almost empty, except for few of us, opening our shops. Had you been here on any of these normal days, which actually is a rarity these days, you could have witnessed a sight of great amusement. Women here trade and bargain their way out with customers, selling vegetables to handloom and handicraft products,” smiled the mother.

Swallow asked the mother about her views regarding complete lawlessness and almost missing administration in the state.

“What to tell you son? We’re a cursed lot. Our problems are never ending. The 120-day long blockade might have been removed now, but then another blockade will be imposed. Bandhs as you have seen is a daily affair. So, we at times also ignore it, and brave our way to open our shops,” she introspected.

Happy Prince and Swallow then decided to meet someone special, whom they admire a lot. The Iron lady of Manipur, Irom Sharmila Chanu, about whom the angels of heaven also talk in great reverence, is nothing sort of an idol for both of them. The civil rights activist from Manipur who has been on an indefinite fast since November 2000 is demanding repeal of the draconian Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA).

As a resident of Imphal, Irom has seen the dance of violence in her state from close quarters. But that day on November 2, 2000 when ten innocent people were mowed down by security forces in Malom, a village near Imphal, Irom could not bear it further.

She told her mother that she had to embark on her non-violent protest, to get Manipur rid from the curse of AFSPA.

Within three days of her fast, Irom was arrested by the police and charged with an "attempt to commit suicide". Since then, Irom Sharmila has been regularly released and re-arrested every year.

She has been lodged at the security ward of Jawaharlal Nehru Hospital in Imphal, where she is being forced-fed through her nose. The security around Irom was too tight, and all their effort to have a glimpse of their idol proved futile. As Happy Prince and Swallow decided to leave the premises of the Hospital, a young man came running towards them and handed them a letter, saying it was sent by Irom.

When the letter was opened, a poem was found tucked between the crumbled piece of paper.

We have lost our paradise/tell the gods of your heaven/to come visit us someday/every day we are dying/ Music has fallen silent on Lai-Haraoba too/ Shiroy Lily does not flower anymore in Shiroy Kashang Mountain/My land is left with only orphans and widows/No body walks on the road anymore/Dogs are scared to even bark/do tell your gods not to create another Manipur on Earth/for human life comes cheap here/falling prey to guns of army every day.

However, nobody signed the poem, so they were not sure whether it was written by Irom (who is also a prolific poet) or someone else. But, truth was spoken in those few lines, and was enough to make Happy Prince cry again.

On the second day of their Manipur trip, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to visit Churachandpur, around 65 kilometer from Imphal. On their way, as they passed through the hilly terrain of Manipur, they came across beautiful hills and dales, with wild flowers waving their path in a sunny November morning.

Once in Churachandpur, the streets got crowded and congested. Small time vendors sitting in various corners of the street with their fares, is a common sight in the town. Right from hot chillies, to dry fish, to trendy clothes smuggled from border of Myanmar, in Churachanpur, shopping is something to indulge into.

But inside the dark alleys of crowded Churachandpur, Happy Prince and Swallow did not expected something as shocking as they got to witness first hand. Boys and girls, as young as 15 years old, were found injecting drugs, smoking cigarettes and becoming part of prostitution and drug peddling, to keep their supply of drug flowing.

Proximity to Myanmar border ensures easy and quick flow of drugs into Manipur. Users are multiplying with time, but who cares, in a place where guns and drugs are the only solace to provide some relief to the complexities of Manipur.

Simon, a former drug user came face to face with Happy Prince and Swallow. Simon realised the two are new to the place and somewhat lost. He joined the two, and walked along with them.

“So, what do you want to see? You won’t get anything here. But, yes free flow of drugs and booze. I was part of the web, but thankfully, has left my previous life,” said the lanky chap, as he handed over his half smoked cigarette to Happy Prince, thinking it would provide some relief to the visitor, after they witnessed dark secrets of Manipur.

Taking his first puff, Happy Prince looked at Simon, and smiled back.
“Would you go back to drugs again?”

“No. Here reality is much more intoxicating then drugs could ever provide you. I am part of this unpalatable secret, and I am not going to run away anywhere,” Simon replied.

Then and there itself, Happy Prince and Swallow decided to tour across northeast India, and its neighbouring countries, to understand the alienated geographical crevices dotting the world map. Perhaps the journey has already started, and we don’t know where they are now.

(Those who have not read the beautiful story The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde, here is the link http://fiction.eserver.org/short/happy_prince.html. The poem in the text is not written by Irom, I wrote it, as part of the blog. I don’t even know whether it could be considered as a poem or not. But, never mind. And, I am not sure whether Happy Prince and Swallow ever visited Manipur. But yes, all the incidents and episodes, in regard to Manipur mentioned in the blog are true.)