Me deep in something nameless. No lunch or finner since 12 June. In no mood. A piece of bread. Four glasses of sugarcane juice. Three boiled eggs. Anything more? Yes, four pieces of an apple that a friend offered in these four days. Fits and starts.
Am I depressed? Blase. No more aware of it. No difference. Bored of this black hole. Still in no food mood.
Tired today. Headache. Chest burning.
No phone call. No talking. I hate talking.
Evaporating. This is what I love now.
মপান্দা অকিবা নোংলৈ নুংশীৎ৷
লূূূম্না নিনবা খরদমক মরোলদি খঙদনা
অঙাংনা ঙক্না কিনা তাবদু না থাঙ্গৎতুনা৷
অরাপপদগি লাকপা মরী থোক্নদবগি অৱাবা পাউ
কদায়দগিনো লীৎশিল্লক শোননা নোম্লৈ
অপাবা য়ুুুখল অঙৌবা থোঙনাউদা, ফক্লাংদা, লময়ায়দা
তপ্না ইমুংগি মম্লিবা অচীকপদা৷
করিশু থোক্তে ইমুুংসিদদি৷
অমম্বা অমসুং অচীকপদা লৈরৈ
লৈবগুম লৈতবগুুম, লেঙবগুম লেঙদবগুম
খোঙগুল তাদবা করিনো খঙদবা অমা
লম্মাঙনরবা হৌদোঙ মচাগুম৷
ফি থোংদবা হনুবা
কোনশিন্দুনা তূমই মমাগি পূক্নুংদগুম
A factory hand. Gurgaon, Haryana. The finger-print reader drew blank. Then the officer had him rub at the violet stamp pad and press his thumb in the thumb impression area in the document. It was a blot of ink with no texture.
“You have no fingerprint.” The officer said. “We can’t go on.”
The man had lost his aadhaar card and he was required to give his thumb impression to get his card reissued.
A factory hand. Hard work had rubbed fingerprints off this man’s fingers. Metal and acid.
“Can you see to figure out what can be done about it? Maybe through social media.” S. Kocha, the kind proprietor of the factory asked tamo Thingbaijam Singh. “He needs his card.”
Translations by Thoithoi O’Cottage of sixty-two poems selected from Tranströmer’s ten poetry collections. The book was launched by N. Kiran Kumar, Convener of Manipuri Language Advisory Board, Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, at the Auditorium of Library & Information Center, Kakching Phoushupat Leikai on 4 May 2018. The launch was presided over by writer and educationist Kunjo Pukhrambam, and poet and novelist Dr. Pukhrambam Rajendra and poet, short story writer and critic Biprachand Pukhrambam spoke about the book.
Last Saturday night, or a bit before Sunday dawn. I had worked the whole day and the whole night on a Kakching District book to be launched soon by Kakching History Society. Finally I felt sleepy. But I somehow wanted to celebrate the hard work by taking a photograph of myself in how I spent the whole day and night–summer sweat, tousled hair, unwashed face, and so on. That was fun.
A face is a face. It tells you just what it can tell. There are other things besides faces. Faces are not the other things. Humans are addicted to faces. For them everything has a face–houses, cars, computers, mobile phones, bras, underwear, pianos, shoes, food packages, pens, boxes, tin cans, machines, flowers, and what not?
Yes, looks tell you what is what. The face of a mango and the face of a lemon tell themselves from each other. But what about two mangoes? Yes, they look different. But are we concerned only about looks? Yes, most of us don’t care–we are cognitive misers.
Still, there are some slow and quiet people who don’t want to go far in life. They dig miles into the space of a second–a second has space big like wide enough to contain a house or a hospital and deep like an abyss. And they want to fill that depth and width with thoroughly drenched experience. Just a few things for them to wriggle into like worms–enough for them. The world is too big for them. They are too little worms for the world. For them, the face is just one of the things things have, if any. They love the insides of things, which carry their own weight, and that the outside cannot represent. By the same logic, the logic of first impression does not work always for these people. You cannot get all what they are from how they look because they don’t show off. This is true of even those who make an effort to put everything they have on show like shop windows because they are richer than they can show.