Monday, 17 August 2015

Wretched. Some thoughts on the ILP issue.

I find myself in a sort of house arrest due to all the protests demanding for the ILP, a never ending tirade of drama and suspense.
My heart is torn between feeling sympathy for the protestors who perceive ILP as the one solution of all our problems, and disgust at how blind these people can get.

Peaceful protests are alright and necessary if one believes in the cause. But to bash up the mayangs, snatch their money and tear down their shops etc is just not tolerable.
We must not forget ourselves and lock up our humane side while being swayed by this seemingly great cause.

I feel such a great deal of sadness in how narrow sighted we have become. Something has caused us to become so violent, so angry at everything; those who don the khaki from amongst us have also not hesitated to show their animalistic side.

This ILP will drive the mayangs away and bring us all the prosperity in the world. We will be the 'victors', forcing the State to succumb to our demands. Or we will not. And life will continue again. But how will we look ourselves in the mirror everyday, having robbed some of their means of livelihood; of having driven them away from a place they have perceived as their home for decades.

Will this hostility we exhibit with so much pride know to rest its ugly face when all is done and dusted.. Or wil it always manifest itself, having slayed whatever conscience we have left in our wretched selves?

Saturday, 15 August 2015

69 years

There is great jubilation on Independence day, amplified by the advent of social media, especially Facebook which now even lets you update the world on how you are celebrating Independence day.

Being an Indian brings with it its own roller coaster of ups and downs.
I feel pride in the laurels of my country and in the great personalities it has managed to produce from the most unexpected of settings. Singing the national anthem and listening to patriotic songs gives me goosebumps and a sense of great patriotism.

But then I am more often than not shaken out of this patriotic stupor by the ground reality of it all.
Being from a state like Manipur has meant that my sense of belonging to India is rather offset by a flicker of alienation. No matter how many years I spend on the 'mainland', somehow I feel like I am seen as an outsider. No matter how many years I spend wandering the streets of Delhi, the vendors and autorickshaw drivers and the hostel wardens will still hike up their rates when it is an outsider like me.

Skipping to today, while the country celebrates its 69 years of independence, my people have taken to the streets to demand the introduction of the Inner Line Permit in Manipur. While I may not agree with their point of view, it still pains me to hear their chants of protests and their tussle with the state police who retaliate with tear gas and rubber bullets.
Somewhere along these 69 years of 'independence', something has gone terribly wrong. Somehow minorities have been made to feel threatened enough for them to start demanding for some sort of protection.

Saturday, 8 August 2015

Truth tea

This world tires me, with all its bullshit about optimism and passion, and the need for chasing one's dreams. The world's manuals rant about how the universe conspires to give us what we want and how we are all special and we are here for a reason and blah blah blah. And yet, there are many like me, filled to the brim with doubts. No answers, only questions. Many, seduced by the colourful hues of hope and the invincibility of dreams, often forget how harsh this rainbow-shitting world can be. How it is only one in every hundred dreams that is fulfilled. The remaining ninety nine turn to dust, floating around, wishing to be heard; brushed off from trophies and laurels hat grace the abodes of the victors.

The truth of the matter is- no one gives a crap about the zillion tea sellers in India, and when a man comes to power claiming to be an ex-tea seller, the world's never diminishing ego swells- they scream themselves hoarse- "Look here, see what we did- we made a tea seller the prime minister of the world's largest democracy." They feed us more and more of the 'never give up, have some hope, aspire' bullshit.

People talk about how fatal the problem of drug addiction is. I agree. Look at the effect of hope and optimism on the world's failed human beings. Look at the empty depths of their eyes, their wary smiles. Look at their wasted away hands. Drugs kill. Not just their bodies, but their very souls.

Monday, 3 August 2015

World weary

It is as if a concoction of some sort has been added into the water or even air supply of the fabled land the name of which I shall not mention. What else could explain the animalistic tendencies that has been brought out in the masses these days. Pure anger and venom spill out from the mouths which open, while others resort to slingshots and stone pelting.

Civilization, where have you fleed to. Humanity, why are you watching silently as these beasts tear each other apart. One for the apparently very noble cause, and the other for the three headed lion emblem bearing the words 'satyameva jayate'. The world weary wonderer can only wonder- will truth ever really triumph?

Friday, 10 July 2015

ILP- some thoughts.

No I will not keep calm and support the ILP:

The posts that I see on Facebook have literally made my blood boil.

Firstly the use of school children in these protests-
What part of this article really justifies 'involving' school children in this seemingly ever so needed quest for the all-problems solving potion of ILP which would magically make all the 'evil' migrants go away and bring job opportunities galore to the Manipuris.

School children are vulnerable, prone to be brain washed by these tides of violence. It's not fair for them to face the brunt of the crackdown on protests.

A more productive solution would be a peaceful discourse on the real issue here- migration and its threat to a small state like Manipur.

The solution lies not in the imposition of an Inner Line permit system, but rather would involve social and economic measures.
Let's face it, Migration is a ground reality in today's highly globalised world. People will flock to places where there are jobs available, and nothing can really stop them from grabbing these jobs, not even the Inner Line Permit.
The reason labourers from North India come to Manipur is because Meiteis either do not have the skills or are unwilling to do manual work.

If we want to change that, let's focus more on things like vocational training and developing the required skills. It's as simple as that.

Also, some fun facts for you-

Fact: ILP was introduced to protect British residents and interests in North east India, and not really to protect the indigenous people of the North eastern states.

Fact: ILP hasn't solved the migrant issue in MiNA. It's merely a permit system, not a pesticide. As has been seen in Nagaland etc, the issue of illegal migrants still persists.

Fact: Most school children hungry for a cause to fight for join such protests blindly or are pressurised by agitation groups to do so. Either way, they are vulnerable. Stop exploiting them.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

A letter

Hello me, my old friend and foe,

The last I tried to speak to you, all I heard were echoes as if resonating from a cold and dark cave. All I felt was a breeze of emptiness drifting towards me and hitting me face on, the cold air slicing through the unfeeling layer of skin. I returned home that day, feeling desolate and rejected. 

The world outside seems to welcome me with open arms and smiling faces, no daggers hidden behind their earthly bodies, waiting to rip my soul apart. And yet,when I look at your hollow cocoon in the mirror, all I see is distrust and hopelessness.

Dear me, I often spend hours pondering upon the reasons for this premature demise of the happy soul that once swelled inside.

Has she emerged from it, resplendent wings and all, to fly off to a place where there is no melancholy and no disappointments?

Or has she faded away, her shrivelled  remains slowly decaying until the winds carried her away to a place of no return.

Dear me, the questions I have are many and yet here you are, leaving me in painful silence once again. 

Won't you help out this lost friend of yours figure out life's puzzles. 

Dear me, are you still there?

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggersby BlogAdda.

Sunday, 3 August 2014


My mother's insistence on living far away from the madd(en)ing crowd has found us setting up a new nest miles away from town. And what a relief it has been, to not wake up to sounds of wailing infants (my uncle being an ambitious pediatrician had a clinic right outside our house) and a barking st bernard (the same uncle has one whose barks resonate in our neighbourhood).

Now all we hear are chirps of birds of all kinds, who linger in our garden; and the rumbling of car tires on the asphalt of the road just outside our gate.

As I type this, I listen to the calls to God from the nearby mosque, and feel a sense of peace within the walls of my soul.

No matter which religion, if we listen closely, with no resonances of bias and prejudices, we hear only words of peace and acceptance. For when the devotees look upward, with honesty and offer their heartfelt prayers, there is purity.

Friday, 1 August 2014


We live in a world where information comes cheap and fast, one swipe of the refresh button on our smartphones allows us to zoom across all latitudes and longitudes of the globe in search of read-worthy news.

Our social media friends also go to great efforts to share nuggets of information on our Facebook timelines and Twitter feeds.

Whoever said information comes free though, each swipe and click informs us of deaths, thousands each day; most in the name of particular man made social segregations.

Variations in Faith and ethnicity often comes at a very heavy price for some, destroying homes and generations in a matter of minutes, eliminated by those who see themselves as warriors or protectors of some sort.

All we see through the bright screens of our phones are figures, the sufferers exist  far far away, at least in terms of emotional distance.

Tens and hundreds have long ceased to be seen as 'worrisome' figures, for they are wiped out even before our fingers can 'refresh' the news window on our phones.

Sunday, 15 June 2014

There's a feeling of despair,  a feeling of self doubt,
Is there ever such a feeling as being cared for so much,
That one feels uncared for.

Loved ones push, and push, high pressure and all,
In the hopes of turning me from a coal into a diamond,
One wonders, do they forget,
Not all coal turns to diamond,
Some get crushed, turn into soot,
Trampled and discarded.

The diamonds, they shine on.
The soot, lay on the ground.
Many bemoan the loss.
Few ever asked it, what is it that it wanted to become.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

An essential ingredient in the Metamorphosis to a butterfly

"Papaaaa", screamed the little girl of four as she jumped from, what to her seemed liked a mountain of a bed. Her father, a handsome young man of thirty five, used to her antics simply reached out his arms to 'rescue' her.

Years on, the girl, then a ten year old, swallowed the lump in her throat as she attempted to execute the tear free farewell she had been mentally preparing herself for. But seeing her father walk away, beyond the gates of her boarding school was too much for her. She ran, as fast as her little limbs could go, to hug him just one more time.There was no controlling her tears anymore. And like always, there was her father, to reassure her, with his warm hug and gentle voice, telling her that it would all be okay. And like always, she believed him.

The letters her father wrote to her were not the usual "how are you doing, we are good" kinds that she got from everyone else, instead, his were filled with words of wisdom, of lessons to learn in life.

As the little caterpillar metamorphised into a butterfly, she was guided by the love of her father. It was not merely his reassuring words, it was in seeing his whole life in perspective. He was a police officer of integrity, who believed in changing lives for the better. Wherever he was posted, he would do all he could to make a difference to those around him.

The girl sought to emulate her father in deed and action, to remember the priceless lessons he has taught her over the years. She knew that if she could be half the person he was, she would go far in life.

Years on, as I look into the mirror, I see a daughter who thinks the world of her father, for he has helped her through the ups and downs of her life, he has given to her the wings to pursue the dreams she has dreamed, and the zeal needed to achieve them.

He has been the essential ingredient in her metamorphosis to a young butterfly, with goals to achieve.

I am writing about <a title="#MyRoleModel Activity" href="" target="_blank">#MyRoleModel</a> as a part of the activity by <a title="Gillette India" href="" target="_blank">Gillette India</a> in association with <a href="" target="_blank"></a>.