Unnamed.

Earth to earth, dust to dust.
My mother’s tears bathed my lifeless face.
I could hear women moaning,
Their agony sung out in dirges
In the land of the living.
Darkness sealed in my loneliness.
This crypt is cold, too cold.
I feel old.

The night they ripped me out
From the dank, damp earth,
I could not cry, though I did try.
A soundless scream wrenched my soul apart.
Kapa, kapa*, why have you forsaken me?
You were wrong – it hurts even after death.
Kanu, Anu*, I long for your warmth.
I feel old, too old.
I am cold.

Notes*:
‘Kapa’ means ‘my father’
‘Kanu’ and ‘Anu’ both are terms for ‘my mother’.

Valentine's Day

Well...this Valentine's Day brought its share of pleasant surprises. There I was, all prepared to be gloomy and miserable, doomed to spending the day in bed because of this persistent pain in my back. Besides, I thought my Valentino-celebrating days were over. And then..you know what I got? Turns out I'm not too over-the-hill yet to enjoy some red roses!

Despite my misgvings about what I tend to feel is an over-hyped, alien, commercialised concept, I must confess that there's something that feels very good about celebrating love. After all, love, as they say, makes the world go round!

In Dreams.
In dreams, I hold your hand
Without apologizing;
In dreams, the sun’s gentle warmth
Bathes my face as I look up into yours;
In dreams, we spread a blanket
And float away with clouds;
In dreams our carefree laughter
Rings out clear and pure;
In dreams, we sway together, softly,
A prelude to another dance;
In dreams, I exult in being yours
While you open up your heart to me;
In dreams, I love you
As though love were not a sin.

Responsible reporting or cheap sensationalism?

This is in response to a horrifyingly biased article written by Mr. Kumar Vikram in India Today http://mailtoday.in/epapermain.aspx?queryed=9&querypage=4&boxid=275671144&parentid=2129&eddate=01/28/08 . Thanks to Illusionaire for bringing it to our notice. Check this out http://mizohican.blogspot.com/2008/02/chp-163-sex-drugs-and-north-east-girls.html

If the standards of so-called journalism in India are so low that such biased reports reeking of racist sentiments are tolerated, encouraged and published, then there's very little hope that India will become a better place. It's positively laughable that many academicians and politicians so vehemntly deny the presence of a mainstream in India, insisting that every Indian community is marginalised one way or another by virtue of the fact that there is such a vast plethora of cultures, races, languages and religions, and so on, ad nauseum. Sure. so, how come some communities are more victimized than others? It's like that joke about being more equal and less equal under the umbrella of equality. Forgive me for sputtering on incoherently when I should be presenting an impassioned, eloquent argument to promote better understanding and acceptance for northeasterners. I'm too mad. And anyway, I'm fed up of apologising for my existence.

WOMAN.

Woman,
You are a fascinating person.
Sorrounded by legends
And myths, ancient and modern.
Your jet-black, ramrod- straight hair
Cascades like waterfalls deep in the jungle,
Where once, tribal lords
Must have paid homage to your beauty
With songs that enchant us still,
The quiet forest reverberating
With drumbeats, as you swayed to the rhythm.


Now you carry the song in your heart
As you lose yourself among the crowd
In the busy city, a far cry from tribal ways.
You speak their language, live their life,
Desperate to fit in, a question of survival.
You do not know your walk gives you away,
For you still walk to the beat of drums
From an ancient, forgotten time,
When you were noble, yet never a savage.
You ignore such reminders, hectically trying
To forge a Self acceptable to them.


Your image in the mirror
Only reminds you your eyes are different.
In vain you wish for a different face:
Larger eyes, sharper features. You look like yourself
And that contributes to your victimization.
They do not understand your ways,
The easy camaderie, the uninhibited joy,
The assumption that people are as good as you.
They do not understand your pain
Or the lengths you go to hide it,
When you sing your sorrow-songs.


Your inability to blend in marks you out
As an object around which myths are spun.
You mesmerize, fascinate, attract and enchant,
You arouse curiosity, suspicion, fantasy, jealousy
And fear
Which must be conquered
By conquering you.
So they fabricate these myths
In an effort to slot you
Into a recognizable category.
Sister, don’t help perpetuate these myths.