A New Word A Day

Revanchism is a term which describes the political manifestation of the motive to reverse territorial losses borne by a country, inevitably giving rise to war or a social movement. Derived from the french word: Revanche which signifies “revenge”, Revanchism gained popularity in the 1870s. It stems from from patriotic and retributionist thought and is usually driven by economic or geo-political factors.

The identification of a nation with a nation-state underpins the ideals of revanchist politics. Revanchism fuels deep-rooted sentiments of ethnic nationalism and claims territories outside of the state where members of the ethnic group live. The world hasn’t progressed much since the 1870s and revanchist ideologies continues to lurk in several parts of the world. The ongoing battle between Nagaland and Manipur is my prime example. I am a silent witness to revanchism in India.

Disclaimer: Received Enlightenment from Wikipedia.

Ubuntu (Stolen Story)

An anthropologist proposed a game to the kids in an African tribe. He put a basket full of fruit near a tree and told the kids that who ever got there first won the sweet fruits. When he told them to run they all took each others hands and ran together, then sat together enjoying their treats. When he asked them why they had run like that as one could have had all the fruits for himself they said: “UBUNTU, how can one of us be happy if all the other ones are sad?”

‘UBUNTU’ in the Xhosa culture means: “I am because we are”

Jesus, How I miss having Ubuntu on my ever-ageing Nancy. The struggles of live-easy with microsoft windows!

JABDAH (Just Another Boring Day At Home)

It’s virtually impossible for a single man to surf the internet for over an hour and not hunt for porn. Erotic literature if the net speed is turtle slow. This inane sequence of mouse clicks is quickly followed by a tempestuous guilt trip. For every thousand hand driven oscillations, a New-age Monalisa could be sketched.

What goodness does repentance offer? Can atonement be found in the drudgery of ecclesiastical service? If your body is the temple of god, then don’t stop appeasing it. Keep the sabbath holy! Hinder not the showers of blessings that shalt spring forth from the Fountain of Eden.

A disillusioned single man seeks a woman to simmer down the sin of licentiousness. More than often, the sin festers.

Three minutes of Re-defining ****

Love is not a cup of coffee. One can’t gulp it down in seconds and get rid of it through urine or stools the morning after.
Love is not a pack of cigarettes. One can’t smoke it away at a party.
Love is not a liter of gasoline. It can’t evaporate through exhaust from Aizawl to Sairang,
Love is not a sleazy facebook relationship status that it can vanish with a few clicks of the mouse.The Love is not gone. But a vital part of it is missing or a bug is impeding the smooth momentum of what we believe is love .  Maybe I will find it one day, maybe I won’t.

Until that missing  ingredient is found or impeding harbinger of love’s doom  eliminated, the relationship will continue to be dysfunctional.

Like a car rolling on with a punctured tyre. Like a cake baked with poison, fed to the kings.

The Previous Evening

4.55: Joins an online conference.

5.03: Rants about TinyChat being the disaster of 2012.

5.17: Gives up on deciphering the echoes and makes out with Girlie in front of the  Camera.

5.37: Throws a tantrum when Girlfriend buys a packet of lays. Capitalistic bitch.

6.06: Hugs Troy!

6.16: Plays FreeCell. Lose twice. Win thrice(is thrice outdated?)

6.37: Dances to his favourite Yoruba Track.

6.54: Stalks on Fakebook and regrets it for the next eight and a half minutes.

7.19: Slices his boiled egg and sprinkles it over his ready made noodle soup.

7.44: Reprimanded for waking hostel-mates up to Noam Chomsky’s voice.

7.47: Licks the last droplet of the Stinky Egg Noodle Soup.

7.52: FreeCell

8.08: Debates over whether the fourth cancer stick is acceptable to I can’t breathe at 23 norms.

8.19: Reads on Polyglots.

8.33: Sweeps a square meter.

8.56: Oh My God! Indonesians are such twats.

9.33: Sparks an Lepchas vs. Nepali argument. Hurts Nepali Sentiments.

9.49: Realizes that opinions can’t be bent in 16 minutes.

10.09: Stares at a rotten carrot.

10.35: “Shit, I still suck at the guitar!”

10.44: “Oh Shit! I still suck at Konkani!”

10.53: “Yay, I must go to Africa!”

10.57: FreeCell

11.07: “My girlfriend is lovely!”

11.17: Receives accusations of labeling past lovers ‘twats’.

1.28: Does a Ctrl+F for the whole blog. Finds Twat. But not in the same context!

11.44: Yawns after an honest attempt to make amends.

12.19: Eats the last biscuit and scratches his muddy butt cheeks.

12.33: “Shall I switch to Solitaire?”

Letting Go, Pushing Away

I

Wise utterances suspend before thee: Don’t Space Out

Of the erudite’s crop, My farm suffers a drought

Through clouds of alphabets, resonates Mayawati

While the tobasco lid topples over, spraying gritty

Oh! What red hot fury did thy negligence bring

Regarding a boisterous puppy not worth a tring

Succumbing to puerile retaliation,

Chapped lips unfurl with indiscretion

A seed of vengeance can sprout a hornet’s nest

Dent after dent, our covenant would be laid to rest.

II

Hot milk when the moon shines, an apple when the bell chimes

A thick carrot for the evening walk, one reminder a dozen times

Amore swells as does the rat-hole bursting with fruit truckloads

Wriggle in a banana and a grape, why starve the mice and toads?

Mesmerized cerebrums find wisdom in a weighing scale,

Goldfish are tiny, dolphins perfect and never a blue whale!

Bloated bodies lose the thrills of a ferris wheel

And in missionary style, would suffocate Ally Mcbeal.

Sigh, cry, hear a lie from a spy, pop a french fry

When the hell does the arrow hit the bull’s eye?

I elude this stalemated diaspora, resurrect the game

Inhale lethal oxygen and give love a bad name.

Now & Then

This morning, a text abruptly reminded of my childhood obsession with the ancient chick flick- “Now & Then”. The one where owl-eyed Christina Ricci grows up to be a bloated Rosie O’Donnell. After a short-lived tour down memory avenue, I was inspired to ruminate over the nows and thens of this erratic month.

The last days of January were splendid. I abducted my better half to the Burma Border. She learned the art of lying. Her parents had no hunch that their supposed goody two-shoes beti entered a new country, snoozed on a taxi-driver’s couch in the dead of the night and woke up to her her boyfriend’s kisses for four consecutive mornings.

The frugal backpacking-junkie that I’ve turned into wouldn’t bat an eyelid in admitting that this was the best getaway. No holiday of mine sailed through without an adversity. In fact, the one mishap opened a thousand doors to laughter and reinforced my girl’s claims of being a polyglot. The careless misplacement of my 11th cellphone (a chronic ailment I’m inflicted with till death) kicking me into an abyss of despair culminated in a ridiculous Mizo phone conversation that brought back the wandering contraption into my pocket.

Etched in my soul, a montage of unframed visuals flicker sporadically. Us meandering endless lanes under the crystal blue skies and pinching Asian baby cheeks (an activity I once resented). Us quarreling in the middle of the streets and consequently facing the wrath of disgruntled commuters. Us brainstorming on how to convey my dire need to take a dump to the flummoxed Burmese waitress.  Dismantling the awning of the earthen loo to grab a sneak peek of my girl taking a leak in a trench; Eardrum-cracking squeals galore!

Guzzling down the worst beer ever manufactured and exchanging spiked saliva for half an hour. Swimming under deep sea of blankets. Forgetting the world.The thens were spectacular.

I must have got my seasons terribly wrong for I doubt any February witnessed the autumn that this love story did. The romance dwindled at the rate of 339 leaves per day. My indecipherable mood swings spanning weeks punctured her bubble, forever blemishing our fairy tale.

Today evening, she walked me to my bus. I hopped in and waved out a mechanical bye. I didn’t ask her to wait till the engine begins to roar. I didn’t embarrass her with a PDA. I just plopped my sweaty butt on a warm seat, pretended to read my novel and watched her hunch her way back to her hostel. This is my now. And it’s far from spectacular.

I can’t change myself to pursue love. I’m a loose cannon waiting to explode.

Accidental Magnanimity

A few moments back, a semi-obese man on a bike skidded off the slope adjacent to my shelter. My vow to eschew the lures of lethargy engulfed me and I sprinted to his rescue. Fortunately, a by-stander rescued me from tearing my sinews as I attempted to haul the vehicle back onto the road. He sprang up to his feet, fit as a fiddle; scrutinizing the innocuous dents on his precious.
My gesture of course went unnoticed. But that’s not what irks me in the least. It’s the unprecedented burglarization of my happy bananas. The bananas that I loving placed into a polythene bag. The bananas I merrily sniffed on my way back home. The halved bunch of bananas that promised to relieve from the tyranny of constipation. The bananas that I carefully dropped on the street to free my palms to succeed in my task of playing the good samaritan.
Yes, an extraneous helping hand scooped up my bananas to revel in my anguish as I watch the unscathed rider fade away into the canopy of hills with my beloved bananas hanging from his bike handle. I hovered before he sped up and a weak congregation of men bickered softly, all in vain. He assumed ownership of my midnight snack. Perhaps, it eased the anxiety of almost losing a leg or his inanimate love. From my end, it was Accidental Magnanimity.

Cupcakes

      Given a choice between a cupcake and a slice of cake, I’m pretty damn sure you’d snatch the former. No sprinkles, no theobromine-rich chocolate icing to release a volcano of endorphins inside a sex-deprived cougar, no narcotics, just plain batter baked lovingly. Yes, the rivalry is perhaps restricted to opposing shapes and volumes. The ingredients match. Wouldn’t you still vouch for that squishy cupcake?

Today, for the first time I nibbled away at short-lived happiness with every rat’s bite of my plain cupcake guarded at the palm of my tiny hand. *Amasses immense will-power to resist digressing to a “Why am I cursed with dwarf hands inciting theories of proportionality to the rest of my anatomy?” drawl* How I’ve sworn I’d refrain from self-deprecation after the “I am so blessed to have hands” epiphany.  Ungrateful wretch indeed. But yes, we’re talking cupcakes.

I’m not a sugar aficionado. Not in the least. My newly forged equation with this tucked fluff-ball  of flour and baking powder is by all means, capricious. And not an ounce of credit goes to the spongy palate massage it induces but the name. What’s in the name. Noel beamed and chuckled his way back to his room repeatedly mouthing – “I’m having a cupcake. I love cupcakes.” Noel occasionally petted the cupcake; greeting it with a perfunctory “Amoinee” (One of the many Nepali slang words that has sought shelter in my peculiar dictionary). Moral of this dull tale? If your offspring is born ugly, pick a pretty sounding name. Never undermine its brainwashing effect. Try Kate or Katie. Now count the number of Kates and Katies/Kateys blossoming in the entertainment industry! There you go.

Defining Love (2)

“Tere ghar ki dog hoti toh tera pyaar apne pure life mein milta mujhe”

Evidently, Of late, I’ve been opening all my posts with sleazy quotations. That’s another symptom that wriggles straight into my coffer of love-bug symptoms. Or is it an effect? If love knows no boundaries, then the line between symptoms and effects is a big fat blur. Besides, I dislike the terminal undertones to the term ‘effects’. And to quit emulating a fraudulent health counselor, I must refrain from this crass analogy I’ve sporadically adopted.

The facet of my saga that I wish to mull over is my mushrooming mood swings. The days of singledom witnessed a blooming daisy  unyielding to the lures of a lazy droop; a variegated butterfly prancing in unawares of its past crawling identity.

But who took notice of the daisy’s inner resolve to brave against the piercing sting of the sun that reached its zenith? How it feared the repercussions of drooping but in the end, the feat was but a lost cause.  Who ever stopped to perceive the butterfly’s silent jeremiads against its unprecedented change of avatar?  How it yearned to grapple with the dampness of earth and would trade its polychromatic wings for caterpillar feet even after traversing the daintiest clouds.

Pardon me for my obscurity. More importantly, kindly do not misinterpret my lucidity deficit. Love is splendid. Love is beautiful. Love is noise. Love is a disease. Love is a bundle of contradictions. And I love love. My point being; love imposes behavioral abnormalities. A girl doesn’t thrive on orgasms without the awkward ‘I’m growing breasts’ moment. While the male attention will be magnificent, the disability to dive into a lake shirtless (#not everybody is born a pornstar) will definitely hurt.

Similarly, love clips a few wings. It degenerates a butterfly into a caterpillar. But you know what? I fuckin’ did my swirling rounds as a butterfly. Love has put me back  on my feet. Heaving dramatic good-byes to the speed of flight, I now crawl but this time, it’s with direction.

What exactly is the point of these foul spewings, you wonder? My blog is my therapy lounge and this is me arriving at a logical explanation for my bouts of savagery that gradually coalesce into electrifying surges of  affection. I believe I have found my answer. Well, partially so. And oh how the desire to keep loving burns in my heart.

Time will heal these sordid shortcomings. And to my muse, to my love, I beseech you to show me hell if I haven’t shown you heaven. And no, metamorphose not into a dog for extraneous limbs render coitus a complex affair.

Note: If by Generous Moses, I’m blessed with International followers, the last line was in reference to the opening quotation which translates into “If only I was your pet dog,you would love me till death do us apart.”