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>.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

The frail old lady in A4 #myRoleModel

When people pass by Room A4 in the Government hospital of Imphal, they will see an old frail lady, surrounded by her closest kin. Weak as she is, she gives all those who visit her, her full attention. She asks each one how they are doing and whether all is well at home.
She greets the doctors and nurses with a smile, thanking them for visiting her.

My grandmother, or Boma as I call her, from the earliest of my memory has always been like this. She has survived it all, be it the Second World War, her being married off to a stranger at the tender age of 12, or raising all of her eight children by herself;  and most importantly she has done it with grace. When I think of role models,  she is the first that comes to mind, with her mind blowing strength and spirit of sacrifice.

Boma has not had the happiest life,  and not a day goes by without me wishing her sorrow and worries would magically disappear. Surely,  a kind hearted person like her doesn't deserve a fraction of all that she has been put through. 

And yet, the way she handles each barrier put in front of her, is a life lesson for all. With her unquestioned faith in God and all that He has in store for her, she has gracefully handled an abusive husband and having to support her ever growing family of three generations.
When I ask her how she does it all, how she's able to smile and live through it all, all she says is that this is her destiny, and she is thankful for all that He has given her. Such is my grandmother,  an epitome of faith and positivity.

It's her belief in me that keeps me motivated, her lifelong dream of seeing me with flying colours that keeps me focused. It is all that she has  been through that makes me strive to give her the life that she deserves.
My grandmother is not just my role model, she is my friend and my guide.

When you pass by Room A4, I ask only this, please don't merely see the frail old lady, but see the victory in the struggle for life she epitomizes.  See the hurdles she has so successfully crossed. See the three generations of human beings she raised, teaching them all the life lessons of grace and humanity, of inner strength and poise.

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>.

Saturday, 17 May 2014

State of mind.

I had dreams once,
But they withered away.
Spawning slowly but surely,
Squashed they were,
By the soles of ambitious shoes.

The shoes they guide,
To promises of happily ever after,
Opportunities of getting all that's to be gotten.

And yet no one turned around,
While dragging my tired limbs to this utopian land,
'What's it that you wanted, little one.'

Instead all they do is tug and tug,
Mistaking me for a soulless wanderer.
And with each passing step,  my dreams and hopes die a little.
I fear the day all that will be left is an empty cocoon,
Where I flew away to, no one will know not.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Caws of the crow

Don't laugh at me, or think that I have become slightly looney,
But of late, I have realised there's beauty in even crows.
That beauty unappreciated by most.
Back where I come from,
The cawing of crows is bad omen,
A sign that death approaches.
Here in Delhi, they seem to command a little bit of indifference.


What it was,
Would never be known.
Was it a reciprocated one,
Or one of the more common,
That of the unrequited sort.

Touched by tragic beauty,
Of the impossibility,
There was a longing,
And a sense of despair.

Song lyrics exchanged,
Each leading to a frantic decoding,
Of words unsaid.
Were words unspoken,
Or was it just a dying man's grasp.
That would remain unknown, undecoded.

Each meeting led to a reawakening,
Of something deep within.
Each awakening hastily suppressed,
Lest it turned the soul into hollowness.

With each glance, a silent goodbye.
And a hope, for clarity.
Kindred spirits we are, they say.
Or is it because of the unknown.
Lest things are unravelled,
And beauty be lost.
Let it stay amidst shadows,
Forever unspoken.