En douceur le doux soleil de septembre . Tombant doucement sur ma peau brun foncé. Je le sens jouer partout. La même brise, très légère sur les feuilles, se déplace légèrement entre la nudité et mes vêtements orange. Je suis agréablement témoin de ce bien-être si gracieusement offert par la nature. Que je pouvais passer tout l'après-midi sous les branches apaisantes des pins. Et dans un parfait silence - le calme chuchote. Le langage et les sensations ne font qu'un.

Et - en soumettent mon esprit Tout ce qui est poétique filtre dans l’état de ma conscience. Et… je bougerais à peine d'ici, je continue à écouter les frappes, les poussées silencieuse de la vie.. presque sensuel dans son unité. Les reins de la terre et les miens ne font qu'un. Je ressens un sentiment d'éveil. Lorsque l'esprit et le corps s'imbriquent spontanément,la profondément, les courants de conscience vous transportent à la source même où la vie palpite.  Vous palpitez jusqu'au bout de l'univers et vous pouvez sentir les étoiles respirer sur votre visage. Le soleil et la lune s'enfoncent dans vos pupilles et y restent .... en regardant autour de toi, ce n'est pas toi qui regarde à travers la félicité de cette solitude, mais le soleil et la lune ... dans l'allumage, assez attentif pour illuminer indistinctement comme si les lampes de la méditation expulsent les bruits de pensées.

Famished teenage days

even more famished 

post teenage days.

Were days 

where i was Unable to tuck my brain anywhere.

The hunger and uncertainity meant the same thing

I nibbled on bits of Neitzsche, Spinoza Schopenhauer and others 

like small convenient sandwiches 

Parts of life, ditched, in each days ditches, boring , blank in unfocussed spaces

From which i didnt bother to struggle my  way out.

Though i was tempted,

only Neitzsche committed suicide 

I prefer to say that Spinoza,  Schopenhauer  and the others, they all did,  in some way sorted out their survival.

And today, i hardly remember  what they said, nothing more than just their names.

And, their real or faked suicides helped me to live my life.

Walt Whitman,  the happy vagabond, sang songs like noone else.

And his beard grew into long leaves of grass

He threw truth like thunderbolts 

The Clouds of his words downpoured heavily 

Transiting the 4 seasons of my life

His old chants, twilight songs,unheard sounds of winter, the icicles and lingering last drops,  the dazzle of the day, left me looking for my own words, 

and, i sat writing .

flew like a Raven out of Noah's arch

And returned from God's opaque storms and bleaking skies

Without finding any land.

But, Noah got shipwrecked on some mountain top ( not me...i was boat less)

he couldnt blame  God for it

So he blamed himself.

The fawn and birds jerked out of his groins as children 

(God bestowed him with mighty balls)

And Noah, 

stored in them , each little secret of the universe.

i left Noah's arch, just walked away

as if the flood was a fiction of my own challenging life.

Somedays in which i drowned. 

i walked away till i did'nt know who Noah was

And now as it rains

It rains 

Oh how sweetly it rains.

How the springtime smells beneath it.

And sometimes it takes only a rain

arch to become , an undrownable arch on some timeless ocean. 

16 bullets of shame

 

Dedicated to the lands and people who have suffered tortures and death, delivered by the hands of extra judiciary troops in the name of peace..

Ima, Ima, Khamu.....

-MANORAMA DEVI THANGJAM, 11 july 2004.

The silences of this forest can never be mine.

In Kangleipak flowers bloom everywhere 

In springtime 

The earth and the sky bends in grief,

11 july 2004: your despairing cries still haunts a Mother's heart.

That day, every Mother became your Mother. 

 The ' Meira Paibais '....Imas,

14 fearless Imas, naked to this very day die slowly waiting for Justice.

Protesting for each violated daughter and son. 

Randomly Murdered by uniformed men hiding behind a flag.

To maintain law, peace and order. 

Whose Peace, whose law and order.

Revolted, ' the torch bearers' wept.

Enraged, they flung away their clothes,

Reclaiming, 

" No we wont sleep , we will burn

Each soul in this land will burn 

We wont sleep,  we will burn 

Till the myth of Truth will burn,

Contenance smeared with ashes 

Of our murdered children 

Now, immortal on our faces 

We will burn down your lies.

Naked we ll walk till we re heard.

Hear us India, Great  Mother, 

Of vedic puranas , eruditions , and Wisdom. 

Hear us Grand Father,  of Ramayana and Mahabharata 

Nights dont sleep 

Days dont wakeup 

in Kangleipak.

Our Land is injured 

Our voices -- the helpless screams 

Of our defenceless children 

Raped, shot, and abandonned. "

11 july 2004: 05h30 am.

They found You.

Lifeless, in the rice fields 

Thats where the Lawless Law left you.

They found you 

Your brothers and family,

with a bullet riddled vagina.

17 Assam rifles , a wretched name to be mentioned. 

" Forgiveness -- is'nt a word we ll remember,  each time we think of you , your brutality, acts and deeds .

Human rights violaters , may you be disgraced forever. "

Nightmare after midnight, the extra judiciary unit descended 

Guet à peun, At Bamon Kampu

Your executioner barged in

Pushing your Mother,  they grabbed you by your hair, muffled you like a criminal 

Forged memos, Determined to hurt, ' on suspicion ' they said 

Dragging to the courtyard 

They waterboarded you, 

Mercilessly, assaults followed assaults 

Dishonouring You in every possible ways. 

The saying goes,..." when you want to drown the dog, you accuse him of Rage. "

The set you up, slit your Phanek,  cut your thighs. 

Everything was wrong, everything being Wrong. 

You realise your tragedy,

Not every Draupadi has a standby Krishna 

No looming palms to miraculously drape

You.....to protect You.

They took turns the ghastly troop.

Helplessly your family witnessed and heard 

Your poignant cries and shreiks. 

Cries and shreiks 

Cries and shreiks .

Today, an old Woman bereives her daughter 

Enclosed in a fortress of pain, imprisonned till she dies. 

A broken Mother 

gathers, shattered pieces of her daughter. 

That night they took you places to places 

Pretending, evidences somewhere. 

Then they faked what they could'nt find 

The mad psychopaths beat you 

Terroised, you repeated 

" Ie Khangde,  Ie Khangde "

No you didnot know 

They knew you didnot know. 

Unconceivable, to the cursed 17 Assam rifles, that you sold the clothes you sew at the village market for  a living .

That you were only a bread winner. 

They ridiculiously forgot 

A bread earner has more responsabilites to be a " terrorist ".

'A Soldier '-- represents 

Honour and Bravery 

A proud gardian to a Nation .

But not these men,  no not these men 

How much do they know of Honour 

How much they know what its to be brave. 

How alone You felt 

Alone on that bench on the verandah.

In an unamed Solitude.

While decisions were made at your back. 

Reminded me,  a similar despairing cry

From a bearded man put on a cross. 

Ima,  Ima....Khamu. 

Ima, Ima....Khamu....are spears that bled the heart of Kangleipak. 

"Here, grief is without ceasefires. "

A Mother  cries ...

Can i be proud of you, my country 

Can the silences of this forest be mine 

Where can i bury these children of Kangleipak. 

Tears are gems, 

Now painfully built from these mourning eyes, 

for a necklace

That can never be worn .

Manorama Devi, in Kangleipak, your memory perpetuates  

on every Woman's faces 

Its Springtime again in my country 

Blossoms on branches are so beautiful 

And each tree bears your name. 

 The advaitha mantra never leaves out from their delirious lips. 

We wash 

We drink

We purify 

We purify everything but our hearts. 

With all the gangas and yamunas

We wash and we wash.

Lifelong - we wash till we  wash our dead

Festively we float our lamps

Yet our darkness never frees us

Where s your gangotri oh Shiva.

14 years or 14000, Hey Ram

How long will be your exile

Have you enough arrows

These Ravana heads multiples 

More quickly than your shots.

Shravanabelagola,monk ,mystic

STANDING NAKED--II
The cosmos is a tantric canvas.
Emotions are like waterfalls, pouring harmoniously, pouring souvenirs....especially, as i realise that i have'nt put down everything about my feelings about this little village.
Sravanabelagola --Lost between coconut trees, the ricefields, cattle, dust, and lotus filled ponds .

The evening breeze is a broom sweeping Bahubali's environnements into a very profound silence,
every changing movement soaks into a "quiet aspect."

Sravanabelagola --- ever since i first set my foot up here i was overwhelm'd.

Here, i saw rocks in poetry and poetry in rocks .
Out of the rocks and sculptures ,an immortal spirit seems to soar constantly...like a long drifting aroma of" peaceful watchfulness".

Nikos kazantzakis says in his semi fictional biography " my life's benefactors have been journeys and dreams ... . . . ".

....this is exactly how i felt when i found myself in Sravanabelagola ;


The tulmultenous bus rides, the catnaps, the energy, the time short run,..... did'nt stop the adventure .
Something magical ,made all the rough side of travelling look almost sterile ; i pursued with enthousiasm ,my hasty visits to these sacred sites.

At Sravanabelagola, on the Chandragiri hills , 14 jain temples invites you ; the uninterupted silence is punctuated by a few chiming temple bells, mantras and children.
You could read the traces of the morning rituals inscribed on the freshly washed temple floor, chalk inscriptions, rice grains and flowers....left over by the worshippers of peace !!

Even if you 're in a hurry ,the majestic" tirtankas", carved in meditation are anything but vulgar rocks !!.

However ,if you watch them, you can witness their deeply absorbed selves shining through the dawnlit appertures of each temple.

For a moment you wonder who is" the rock" !!


On the other hill ,the Vindhyagiri ;
Stands , the most impressive structure i've ever seen ,the naked Bahubali...with his feet on earth, his head holds the heavens ,
or rather the heavens unfolds in his head.

Eyes gently closed, "doing nothing else" but watching!!
Eyes closed watching "the invisible" ;

this made me realise that ,to watch" the invisible "one must close the eyes and open the eyes of your heart,
And, besides the watching of "inner dawn" the rest seem'd to be immateriel .

The air arround is purified by prayers....

( prayers -- another cosmic broom.)...and the heart gathers the sparks of light from some chilly night wherein you 've been treading.

Here , one does'nt seek illuminations, because illumination is everywhere .
Here your meals are made of spiritual landscapes ---" the watcher "and" the watched" are one ; the voyage leads you more and more inwards.

Sravanabelagola -- is a pretext to be spiritual!
You move away from dying words and delve into living feelings.
A divine finger performs a divine surgery on you.
You're not here to convert or to be converted; someone peaceful awakening with each dawn moves out of the rocks, and you witness it!!

As i left Sravanabelagola , the immense statue remained silent, witnessing with closed eyes, tolerant, never asked your name nor culture, country, nor the list of your eruditions......... 

" Sit here, be here, and watch!! " 

" drop all your sterile gods -- dead they are, as your ideals" . 

"Here , there's place for only one -- 

the one "in you ", 

the only one worth watching!!
for when he awakes, the silence is full of miracles and births......
then, a word that escapes your lips will be a healing whisper of peace !!"

Your touch "heals" , because you 're healed!!.

No barrages,
no conflicts ,
no filters,
no ideals,
no parasiting emotions....
the profound currents of one single meditation washes them all away -- including , the loftly and the lowly!!!

Only the sponteneous remains.

A one day before indepence day celebration poem

 Dedicated to Kashmir, and to an old jesuit ... father Stanley.

Leaders in my country

Build gigantic statues on 3000 crore budgets

Instead of schools, roads, proper drainages and toilettes.

Open excretions still prevail

Except, the stink comes from the multiple political speeches, promises and propagandas

Broadcasted on tv for mass brainwashing.

On indépendance day they salute the flags

Makes the army parade around patriotic farces

Next day the same planned riots, murders, forthcoming élections schemes  and religious issues of

Who ate the cow, or who didnt drink the urine, or who didnt bow before its dung.

When the british left we recovered their methods 

--Thé taxes.

Wé threw them out to sit in their chairs to do the same things in new texts and legislations 

Wé became tax collectors

Taxes to eat, shit, pee, and breathe.

Tax money spend when a minister goes out 

Or changes his mind and comes in, or to pay for his appendicitis operated in the US.

And when he returns post-op, he returns with diplomatic immunity to custom pass his gold loaded bagages.

Now, 

Watch out for the new taxes on democracy.

For having said this much, i ve become a national traitor, a terrorist,  a threat to my country's security

À framedup warrant on my head

For not loving my country in their terms

For not becoming ready To be a ' dumb fuck citizen.'

 Writing has never been easy for me, it was never a logical construction of an idea. I wrote from a moment that would prod inside, transform my vision that very instant it enters. 

Yet i know what is boundless in my soul is accessible only when i shatter my heart into pieces,  even then, the words remains as a settling effect of that emotional implosion.