Monsoon In The Hills

Nature suddenly wakes up to listen to the rain songs

To take a satiating peep at the soaking and drenching

Of man, buffaloes and the green sleepy surrounding.

Men wake up early, women never seem to sleep

Worrying about their fields, their survival bowel

While frogs and crickets goes on throating undying jubilation.

Cultivation song sounds from every corner

Echoing away the pride of being born in the hills,

Fighting the swift wave of transition

A slow change; a better world, yet a sad lullaby.

Listening to the rain drops beating on the roof

Tuning my ears to the stories of grandpa

I used to dozed off often into the land of yore

Knowing nothing about the impending expulsion

Into the land of sky scrappers and motor world

Far from where grandpa sleeps an eternal slumber

Too far from the lovely monsoon mood of the hills.

Memory being a painful boon, it's useless to struggle

Trying to forget what we can never reinvent

But time has shaped even the the hardest rocks

Being mortals we were shaped to change with time

Grow up to see the painful burial of a tradition

Like the rotting of mushrooms in the monsoon rain.

A peaceful or a sad adieu no one knows for sure

The passing of time that has wiped away Civilizations.

Great and small streams merged to make angry rivers

Mighty rivers unite to make gigantic seas.

As that life in the hills become distant

Realization finally settles in its own force

That our lives are driven by the seasons of time.....

Sun Dial Moments

The grainy moments of life get sifted
Abiding the laws of regeneration
Thus returns the pain of Mortality
Breaking a peaceful trance
Jubilation of a sprouting unshamed
infatuation.
In the midst of everyday madness
Unique images of addiction appear
reviving the sparks of tender romance
She came to vanish like a mirage.
Time is timed, age too kills
Yet her nose tamed me to think
time could be caged and moulded
to block the tiny hole of the sun dial
The lone means to shame the vendor of time.

The Hills I love. Ukhrul....Sihai Khullen

Though the place has many stories more aligned to tears, sorrow, lost, suffering and intentional tales of torture, I have no strength to forget the land where I was born. The place is in the extreme north east of India, in the state of Manipur. The landscape is like a masterpiece painted by a very imaginative painter. Stretches and streches of forest and the never ending mountain ranges makes the viewer wonder whether the ranges has no end at all. Flora and fauna of the region is again something that cannot be compared with anything I know of. Love sprouts spontaneously.

Beautiful hills watered by the tears of the inhabitants, songs of seasonal birds got merged with the wailing of many mothers crying for their lost siblings in that peace yearning beautiful hills. The insects, wild animals, and even cattle at home roamed as usual, yet the species supposed to be more free and blessed are forced to close their wooden doors, not out of fear for any animals but the fear for his fellow beings who happened to carry rounds of bullets and the machine to play with it.

A very special law protected their appetite to frisk, punish and to kill who looks suspicious in one way or more ways as defined by their head and sight. Many villages were fed to fire and reduced to ashes; many were beaten up, many innocent maidens raped for the supposed mistake of wanting to be free. Many daring brothers and sisters of mine were captured and skinned for wanting to be free. The cost of this desire has crossed all known limit of any known quoting system, yet we seem to be nowhere even after crying and suffering for more than half a century.

With the coming of Christianity, the harp and folk songs have died, a slow and painful dead. The younger generation has drifted away so willingly along with the wave of change. Yet, in the midst of all these quick and painful transition, there still remains some remnants of the past in some of the remote places. In these places, the touch of yesteryears can really make you proud of the almost extinct glorious past. Here, you see young people trying to learn folk dance under moonlit nights. Well, this experience will be something strange but be assured, it is a lifetime treat. Go 37 kilometers north from the Ukhrul Town and seek for Sihai Village. There you are, right there at the right place. This is one village, where you can take a glance into the past. You can hear scores of stories of war, loss and pain, history that has a long root, migration and many more.

I enjoyed sitting by the fire listening to the folk songs sung by some of the elders. As the night become quieter, I heard the strumming of the guitar and the sound of young men singing, from near the village cemetery. As my ears were more attuned to the songs coming from outside, I struggled to focus on the folk songs being sung right in front of me. My confusion just grows on.














This is the place where the past and the present shares a common tryst. The story continues, stay tuned...........

The Discovery

Life flies on like a wounded butterfly
Mornings filled with hope thinking it's a new day
Yet nothing "NEW" seems to dawn
I travelled within the same circle
To complete the never ending gyre.
When there is a conflict deep within
Between the heart and the head
I followed where my lungs lead me
For I misplaced both my head and heart.
Religion corrupted my existence
Faith is buried in creativity
When man evolved, funny ideas flew by
That was how I discovered
God on the leaf of a papyrus.