Post # 36 # Have You Ever Been Kick Out of a Party?

You might be a political nutcase, who swears on living, breathing and s*****g on politics. When I say politics, I mean the political system of a land, rather than those representatives in some talking shops. That is what Hitler used to describe the parliament of a democracy. However, your opinions in certain social gathering would help others find a valid reason to kick you out. At least, let us hope, the hosts would tolerate your desire to be the general manager of the universe—if not for the drunken manufacturing of choicest expletives and putting on the mask of a universally accepted critic. Nevertheless, you get kick for one reason or the other. So pathetic.

Post # 35 # The Tragedy of an Activist

The only word I can use about writing as a weapon is resistance. This connotes a lot of things in my native place where there is too much political and social violence. One amongst those mess is the presence of so many activists, born out of the turmoil. I'm also an activist. Nobody knows me but I'm an activist. I don't do anything but it is not cool to say I'm not, so I call myself I'm an activist. I am. But I'm worried if I get a government job, which is the only source of white-collar jobs out here in Imphal, possibly I might end up writing elegies and obituaries for nationalists and patriots, who like me, are the activists.

There are people like RK Ranendrajit and Arambam Lokendra in my hometown. I feel self-conscious to introduce myself as an activist to them. Should I carry a gun when I visit them so that they know I'm into something activism? Should I take along some pamphlets? Should I show them my bio-data of the activistic things? Should I tell them that I give financial support to poor people, that I do a lot of social works that even my friends know not, that I don't even remember at times?

No, nothing will do. I'm just an animal who lays eggs and nothing is there beyond my comfort zone. When the police kill the people, in a Kafkaesque transformation, I become an activist. When the rebels kill the people, I become an activist too. Because I have nothing to do than being an activist; because I have also got a big heart that I care so much about other people. Don't call me my name, just call me an activist.    

Post # 34 # Strange City, Stranger Stories

It is a trend in my hometown, Imphal. After Xth Class, half of the students go outside the state for further studies, and most of them after the XIIth. People are worried, more than the critical situation of our civilization, about this trend which has reached an epidemic proportion in the last decade. In our parents' generation, most of them did pursue their higher studies outside, but they went back home for the jobs. Now the story is different. We study outside the state and have started working here. The reasons are obvious: lack of job opportunities, worst socio-political conditions blah blah blah.

So we arrived in strange cities, with sackful of dreams. Legally, we are in our country but the difference between us and our host-cities is stark. Needless to say, racial discrimination is rampant, cultural stereotypes are ripe and there is a sense of the proverbial us-and-them in many facets of our daily lives.

THE STORY
There is a place called Rohini in northwest Delhi. One day, a group of thugs came and snatched a necklace from a lady, who was left dumbfucked. A few days later, the same thugs came again, much to the horror of the passers-by and of course, the lady who was so unfortunate to meet twice her adversaries. Then the worst part of the story unfolded: the goons started beating up the lady. When asked by a gentle old man, they barked they had snatched a piece of jewelry from the lady but it was a fake necklace. So they barked repeatedly like a mad dog while punching and kicking the lady, asking her why she wore a fake necklace, while everybody was waiting was Shaktimaan.