My Empire

By N. Bobo Meitei *

Being an apparatchik in a socialist democratic nation I was accommodated by righteous paranoid free leaders. I was fed, entertained with courtesy by the bums in the country, meanwhile my peers sneered beneath their indistinguishable smiles but applauding and sometimes patting me, which at some point seemed like vengeful smacks.

I sailed through and cocooned my inflated body which was a lot prominent with the distinct pot-belly, which became an inseparable floppy mate. Every place I descended from my Russian imported helicopter assisted by my stern black cat commandos, while the barrel of the Israeli made gun caressing my floppy belly.

Then I realized that that gun would come alive if an innocent finger pressed on it, only if some inconsistently malignant mind instructed.

Pheww! That notion of that loaded piece becoming alive sent shuddered down my back and in a rather queer manner it bounced up to invent a sweeping rupture over the bulging belly ,disconnecting my comrade-fed belly from the potent loaded piece.

My manicured feet wrapped in Italian shoes, swollen body enveloped in social democratic uniforms, and I still don't know why I wore a red-beret, though. Planting my distinct self below the cacophonous chopper, I stood with my thumbs tucked into my olive green belt while the rest fingers resting on the edge of the belt.

I was just wondering why there were many people to welcome me, in my mere disappointment my mind rushed too far to fetch; a possible coup d'etat or a cold ambush by the disgruntled revolutionaries who had prompted me and had also groomed me.

My premonition didn't betray me actually; by the time I stumped myself atop the hillock the view of squirming human octopus, releasing their tentacles just to touch my divine body.

Contemplating at what the country bums might have fathomed an unconscious snicker slipped out from one corner of my sensual mouth, which they misconstrued as a generous one.

Before I could even twitch my mouth they clapped and my name became the spirit of their incessant chanting. To a man of my character not having to talk and to be appreciated for the anticipation they had been fed came as great relief.

Oh yes ! This world is a big harem and most of us are the concubines, as a unanimously chosen master of the harem I sauntered along the scented quarters, stopping by each door to stick my inquisitive head to ensure they were alright. Noticing the tip of my beret they stood up and sent out the loud and deferential expressions, pleasing me and fueling me to continue with my jubilant saunter.

As this heaven, which many termed hell, could not guarantee my physical immortality my junior had to be groomed as the heir to my unanimous position. Since my junior had no inclination to encase his chiseled physique in my comrade uniform I allowed him to go his way.

He showed up in his Armani suit, hair oiled like a traditional Sicilian heir, smilingly he picked ways, my campaign. In fact it was his campaign.

The young country bums adored him as his commandoes were not black, instead they ferried him in Apache, swarmed by wire entangled flunkies whose eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and there was no sign of loaded piece.

When I could not decipher the whole wire entangled business I realized it was time for me to retreat to pave the way for my Armani junior. Instead of boiled water he started drinking American water; Che was replaced by Hunky Hollywood stars. But he was the heir to my cocooned place, though.

Now they called it depression inflation, and constitutional changes, I hadn't been quite passionate about what I had professed so sitting under an awning in the tropical summer, gulping down my sixth shots thinking if my single handedly established empire would be brought down by my Hollywood-chiseled junior.

He talked about the satellite-enabled TVs, the world of Ws, etc. There were people who could see his eyes behind the sunglasses. And those people accused my junior of not opening his eyes while speaking to the people so they formed hyphenated organizations, Anti-eye-closing group.

Those who could not see him sit lashed out at him for not doing so and they like the other hyphenated groups came up with hyphenated name to mobilize the supposedly uninformed toiling soiled masses to make him sit and to open his eyes behind the dark sunglasses.

The ruckus of it reached its zenith with the antis shouting hyphenated slogans on behalf of the uninformed toiling soiled masses. Hearing my anti-junior hyphenated slogans I went plotting conspiracies against the hyphenated groups.

Although it tailed off with due course of time, another group of jingoistic kind emerged accusing my junior of not removing the Made in the West from his jets, his clothes, etc. I knew thespians in my heyday who had rolled on for decades on stages with less moss.

They, however, relented leaving only the relentless spirit of their words. It was quite the opposite for the now-revived-hyphenated groups and jingoistic many, for their slogans and performances were re-recorded and re-replayed to the toiling soiled masses prompting their innocent adrenaline to vibrate.

In his Made in the West plane we was just sipping a martini , while I was dancing cheek to cheek with young birds, the hyphenated in combination with the jingoistic brought down the empire I had once built single handedly for my junior.

My creaky joints would not prop me up nor was my frozen mind aroused in my new-found shady world. It was once mine.