Presumably every typical denizen of Manipur, like lilac-unreach and unexplored, are in the doldrums.With no sufficient space to inhale and exhale a breath, no peace to engage in mulling over, no tranquility to step next, our domain became pint-sized with the dawn of every other day. Like in wilderness, we pined to be heard for.

Encompassed by thorny twigs, we remained isolated. Neither can we move out nor could a florists pluck. We remain unpluck. Worser still, we're deprived of enough space to lean to and fro whilst we stand on our own foot. What we could afford now is to hang up with our dolorous moods.

To strip to the heat, mist and dew is the diadem which is in store for us. The bud that fall from us sprout up like us. And like the seeds that fell among thorns in the parable, the thorns sprang up and choked them.

Ours is a story of unending chaos as if with vigor undeminished.
They killed there.
Here is another corpse.
They practices corruption.
Immorality is here.
They try to subdue.
We try to beat them all.
We try to kill.
They shot.

After all, this is a land where we're born and breed together, ate and defecated together, wept together, insulted each other, help and hate, and suffered together. The landscape from the starting north to the southern most edge; from the rising east to the setting west, is a paradise. The hills, vale and mountain were adorned with all profound beauties; flowers and fragrances.

But amazingly enough, in this seemingly God's own land, we felt the presence of everything and anything; except God, goddess and goodness. The fragrances of wild flowers were replace by the stench smell of stinky carcass. What Shelley wrote in his Death as thus--Death is here...there,...busy everywhere, All around, within, beneath, Above is death....is a fitting picture now in Manipur.

We had turned paradise into cesspool. While we are in befuddlement and bewilderment. There is no dearth of issues we deemed too big, nay too small in which we sidelined and hesitate to pull the string to our respective side. The chasm appears as a result, with odium and redicule.

In a bid to pander our selfish end, we don't even spare for our kids. The rivers that once flow in peace, singing to the tune of nature now flooded with blood and gore, violently. With our absurd pomposity, we pick everything and anything-fair or foul. Soldiers kills you. Rebels don't spare you either.

The light at the other end of the tunnel appeared dimmed in our vision. Or deprived of seeing it. The scenic beauty of the land is also not analogous to the presence of hoity-toity person with holier-than-thou attitudes.

But where did we get all those messy stuff? Did we cultivate it? Or is it an exotic culture from where God only knew? The question mark is writ large over our head.

Despite the best we get of life, we are, a forbidden lot to sing our paeans. And no rhapsody to humanity. Why not we taste the bliss of life. Why not we admire the beauty of humanity. We waste in haste. Are we not destined to enjoy the love of life?

At this point of time when spared for the last game is an extended priviledge, we dare say, tenderness and hope of the hoi polloi vanished into thin air. Forget an epic about the soul of humanity. Minus a song of love. Nought a hymn to life, in this morally impoverished hinterland. Och, aye you are, life, a mystery.

Our brain stormed like a tempest in our attempt to solve it. In reality what a nice song you are to sing. An adventure in yours. A promises full of luck, which we fail to make it. Precious, life, you are to live with, but we failed to preserve and protect you as you deem. To us you became the cheapest asset which we (could) destroy at will.

Sadly what we can get of life here is only the flip side. A sorrow. Other than the Hobson's choice, there is no way out. We employed all our strength to overcome it and accept the struggle. Those who dare test the impregnability of the castle doors to confront the tragedy is considered gifted with fair endowment.

Well, doggone it. No voices in sweet resurrection which brings to life the other living dead in various pocket of the land!

Though, like a lilac- every Manipuri blossom to the fullest in ignoramus, ignoring the hedge that surround him. Unnoticed, the thorny twigs that surrounds it became a barricade for its existence against all squally and tempestous elements.

With all pride, with all charms; none to sing of his beauty- blithely unaware of his environments, he bloom.

To withered and desiccated unnoticed.