Black door hid in the wall
The knob rust to its bolt
Minds in sink, and eyes blurred
The path and light was waned
As blind men licked their fresh wounds
Mothers hope in tearful prayers
But the sun could bring no light
And the tears could breed no salt
The journey wades in blood
Unlulled whimpers wrest the streets
Guns weigh down weary bones
Sisters dressed in mourning black
Singing dirge over dear brother's bier
Playground turns to graveyard
Laughter's drown in tremble
Flesh and bones thronged the wall
Hope blinks, but the door is afar
[The Door Afar-DB]

I still remember the writings on the wall the last time I went home (Churachandpur, Manipur).

The fences were barbed. The walls were pregnant with different voices. They silently stand with loud shrill. Some murmur. Some scream.

No one seems to hear them though. But they are filled with expressions. We only have to look inside to hear them. The journey reported my progress into the "disturbed zone". The sign read, "Stop for Security Check".

The hands in the air routine follow as ordered by the soldier of the cow-belt. There were too many silly questions. None of them were anyway related to "security". My security. Their security too. Our beautiful place teems with suspicions and doubts.

Fortifying walls of sinecures. I sought a release in allowing the imagination to contemplate. But our existence bears the same longing for the antique world of headhunting "glories." The government is armed to the teeth. The non-government actors are armed too.

Even the unarmed civilians are armed with fear. There was big "Them". And bigger "Us". That we are. So we are.

Like in celebration, the new generation today, seems to enjoy the burst of pride and spill of values. So we shoot. Bleed. Kill. And displaced one another. Someone is still there to feel like a winner.

Like a champ. Shame, the bizarre mess.

Tales of horror and its influence worked upwards into dismantling 'us' apart. I realized, our efforts have been vainly impressive. We are getting closer to patenting bloodshed for Manipur's symbol.

The color too.

However, I will never exit without telling you about the most beautiful thing I saw. In the midst of sandbags and makeshift military camps, I saw the huge red winter sun shift softly towards the waiting green hills and blue mountains.

There were playful voices of children in the near and far background. I still can hear them now. Unfortunately, it was more difficult to crawl back to the thought patterns of a peaceful, pleasureable existence. It was more difficult to imagine that I was homeward bound.

I, then, question Manipur's existence.

Is it just a narrative today? A dream? Conversations?

Excursions in nation building, unfinished sentences, dashes, blank pages, fantastic syntax and sentiments? Or a flood of overflowing emotions.

Where have our education and religion gone? Where is our reason? Our peace? Our love?

Should we continue to wait for the smoking barrels to lead us from the drain of ignorance?

This degeneration could be the beginning of an end for us if you and I remain mute and comfortably numb. Things were good. And then they got worst. Tall gloomy stories of barbaric killings, rapings and displacement should no longer stand as the garner from which our history was to be fashioned.

Are we to live and leave as mere shadows, without a trace? We need freedom from fear, hunger, and killings. No freedom can be higher than that.

We must freeze our frozen ties. This far we come not to stoop to fragments.

Arise, the bell tolls for us today.

Lest we forget, the knell will be pulled over our remnants.

Remember, we are on the turning.