I always asked, what had drawn the delusion to dwell for so long in Manipur? Are the perils ours to keep? The long night have hatched for too long. Do you come to sleep? Do you come to live? When will dawn set in? When will the promising light drive the brooding night away? When will the lullaby lull the whimper of the vale? Will the mother’s prayer stop the trigger-happy son from pulling just one more time? When will the government stop militarising our only nest? The latest technology imported to the state was some machine that can end lives. Not for the slaughter-houses. But for man to keep him at ease and peace. But? The mean machine knows no innocence. No gender. No age. The expensive technology floods in the face of hunger, drought, pain and all sorts of misery. Mother we don’t even have safe drinking water. No connectivity. No green or white revolution. There is big absence.

Beautiful vale, hills and mountain. Veil your eyes. Let vain mortals fight behind your hidden eyes if they still have to. But allow us no more if your silence could speak to reason us together. Drinking from the well of false pride we are quenched with narrow visions. Visions smaller than our eyes could see. Visions that eyes haven’t seen. Some blurred. Some bright. Some real. Some glitter but clatter. But they all seduce the travelling man. Clogging small remaining spaces with sharp edges, where everything remains a distant from the shelter. Man in quest and hunger. Everyone ready to die for something else. Even the unwilling die for something else. Something they they don’t want. Something they don’t believe in. Blood flows. Fear looms. Desperation sweeps. The quest stagnates in confusion. The warmth of home fades. Home’s lesson die unlearnt. But he was their son. Some, the only son. But all were loved and dear ones. Father and mother wonder the teacher within them. As they realised the lessons sowed on their beloved son comes out alive the other way round. The valve is still sought. But the seek is still a sought for the big elephant with blinded eyes. Unless we reason together the bleak will tweak. The beak will sweetly chirp no more. It will bray coarsely. The naked twig will shiver in the blank sky. What will happen to the songs? Who will bring the warm feathers to sit on the birch?

Will time or chance deliver the quest? Fair hands, draw closer. Your merciful grace be with us. Like the beauty of season that never fails, embrace us in peace. Leave none in pieces. Give the beast his lion’s skin. Let the sheep graze in the vale and hills before the milky grass dry. Let the weary flesh see the sunset undisturbed. Let them leave to tell the souls beyond that we dwell in peace. Heaven would sigh, then. And hell would be shamed.

Mothers’ nursing time with the “when” expectation lay shattered. Levelled to the ground. Some already hidden by the ground beneath. Heroes or martyrs? The leftover, today, beat with the asking. The expectation is different. Not their will. Or wish. The time of expectation is but never over. Expectation is the richest garner. So many times I wish we could end there. The joy of expectation. Man quest for more so he drives it till he sees the orgasm peak. But the life that grows from that end set the means for the vain.

Unseen fences all stood in a row. Some bigger than wall. Some higher than the sky. Some thicker than the minds. Us and them, unfortunately, matters. But, given thousand years, we need to live as one. Cold feet stood frozen facing untouchable like fences. But the skin is the same. The blood is all the same. The eyes are the same. Nose too. Even the little brain is the same. But are we any closer to where we ought to be? I won’t fight for freedom. Or any bigger words. But give me peace. Give me love. Let us share. I will, then, embrace the last moment with pride. I will leave, then, leave like a king. Content with no crave for more. With quest for no more. But what have we sown to reap that? Can any man reap what he did not sow? Can any man leap without seeing?

Heavy brow wades directionless. They bow and mourn. The days end as if they would be the last. And it begins again as if they were the first day to last again. Some hope we will eventually grow out after burning out. Some hope we will see the light from the cracked view after tiring out. Some believed in ten to fifteen years. If faith is religion, we seem to have no god here. Nothing certain. Blind everywhere. Not even a smack of believing. Everyone doubts. Doubt everywhere. Doubt every moment. Doubt everyday. That spills over to doubt oneself. Thomas’ tribe multiplies. To believe is to see. But how do we see peace to believe? When the peace within is doubted, the peace is without. Without trust.

Where is the explanation? Where will salvation come from? How shall we tell the generations about these lives? Will you dare tell them that you were silent all this while? That silence was more valuable than gold. Will you tell them you were too small for the big problem? Will you tell them you were ignorant about it? Will you tell them you did not start the fire? So you are not responsible. Will you tell them that you just let things be as they are? Practising Daoism unconsciously. The philosophy, in Wu Di’s time in China, which evolved into a religion. Let things be as they are. The scholars at the Han court in ancient China, when China rivalled the Roman Empire in power and prestige, made a good attempt to explain all events by an inevitable cycle of Yin, dark and cold, and Yang, light and warm. I don’t know if this profound turning point of ours ought to be applauded, celebrated or lamented. But hang on. Maybe we are just passing through that inevitable journey. Through Yin and Yang.