Author: seijiscribbles

YOUTH DEBATATHON: ON THE BANK OF BRAHMAPUTRA, THE SUNSETS AND THE MEMORIES

 
As long as I can remember, the last time I was chosen on a team was almost ten years ago.  I was chosen as one of the players in our local basketball team.  I was just a mediocre player who could barely do a lay-up and dribble the ball.  I think the only reason why our local coaching-staff chose me was because I was young and active.  I never missed practice and always be the first to arrived at the court.  But our local team was one of the poorest organised teams across our state and when we did play the state level tournament, we were knocked out on the first round, a debacle that could have been the worst losing record.  To make matters worse, I was not able to be part of the team because my chronic illness came out at the most unwanted time.

Well, that was my first experience as being selected and be a part of a team to represent something at some event.  I have never been chosen since then.  But recently, I had received an invitation from an international organization through our institution [MZU] to be part of a team that would represent our state.  In receiving that invitation, my gratitude as well as my timidity was profound.  I cannot explain the extent to which my appreciation and self-deprecation started doing some kind of comparison in my head.  But, I told our liaison, the ever selfless and affable Student Council leader—Tleipuia that I accepted the invitation.

Later, I received an email from the organisers about the event and the purpose of it.  It was from Society for Promotion of Youth and Masses (SPYM Delhi) that they would be organising a ‘Youth Debatathon’, focusing on gender inequality, child labour and the attainment of Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) in collaboration with Plan India, an international NGO, in Guwahati.  First, I was excited because it [the themes & purpose] is relevant with my subject—economics, the queen of social science.  Second, as an aspiring economist, the thought that came in my head was ‘What would be the cost and what would be my benefit?’.  But Pu Robert from Social Welfare Department called me up and reassured me there would be no cost needed to be incurred by me, since all of the required expenses will be paid by the invitee.  Then he also told me that my teammate is also going to be from our university. Then it was finalized and we were bound to be heading to Guwahati.  Somehow, my teammate got my number and texted me—Patrina from sociology department.

Later, we boarded a plane—my first experience though I won’t write much about it since I’ve already written it in my vernacular—and arrived at the lofty Don Bosco Institute at Kharguli in Guwahati.  We were given separate room and the other teams form other states were yet to come.  Taking this opportunity, we paid a visit at one of my staunchest non-Mizo friends at Beltola and we even dined there.  My visit to my avuncular friend Mr. Abani was just awesome.  The hospitality and care we had received was something I never expect.  It reminds me that all North-Easterners are not bigots and insular.

The next day, we started the much awaited ‘Youth Debatathon’ by doing introduction and breaking the ice with other teams and delegates form various states across the North-East.  Almost all of the representatives from other states were from Social Work department and their teams comprised more than 2 members while my team (team Mizoram) was only the two of us.  Had it supposed to be a combat war, we would surely lose, the probability of defeat was certainty.  Then we built a state charter and poster-mimed two things that addressed the problems in our own respective state.  The need for more hands was real.  After this, we lunched and exchanged pleasantries with delegates from other state.  There was one damsel who caught my eye—a slender curly fair skinned girl from somewhere in this God forsaken corruption ridden land.

After lunch, we presented our respective state-charter and then picked out the ones which have similarity across the region.  We chose Drop out from school and Child marriage and teenage pregnancy as the theme of our youth debatathon for the next day.  Pradeep, an expert from Plan India, presented us a PPP of Gender Vulnerability Index (GVI) across the region which was quite insightful.  Then we chose different stakeholder lens—self, family, community and government.  I opted for theme one and chose government as my stakeholder lens.  When we finally finished the first never-ending it seemed session, it was already dark and the sun calmly set on the bottom of the Brahmaputra as if it were tired of the soporific weather.  The first day.

Many experts, prominent citizens, scholars and analysts were already discussing something when I entered the hall.  The jury members were already being seated and without much further ado, we started the debatathon on the first theme—Drop out.  There were theree of us, Jeet, representative of Assam, Maryta, representative of Manipur, who chose the government stakeholder lens.  On rpund one, each of the stakeholder groups presented our point(s) of view and the possible solutions before the jury.  Round two was a surprise round where we switched our stakeholder lens, and round three was the round where we came up on agreement and forward our ultimatum to the jury.  In each round intervals, we had questions and answers round and it was thrilling, exciting and nerve-cracking.

The same steps and procedures were done on the second theme and then the jury members expressed their opinions and even counselled us.  They were all empowered women and their mild ostentatious demeanours swayed the crowd and everyone was at attention.  One jury member was so gorgeous and beautiful that I kept looking at her and Patrina had to shake me off from my daydream.  I rued the fact that I was born so late, so far, so unequal and so out-of-her-league form her.  Finally, it was getting dark again and our facilitators—Neha and Shruti did the vote-of-thanks like thing and day two was over.  I don’t know why but when I was about to head for the exit, one Ma’am from the jury called me, shook hands with me and congratulated me.  She told me that she liked my arguments and point of view and even said, ‘I can tell that you read a lot of things.’ I was somewhat flabbergasted and be like how I always do whenever someone complimented me—scratch my head with an awkward smile.

On day three, representatives of each state presented the youth-charter to the team of experts form Plan India and I did a presentation on the first theme.  I was a bit edgy and I had butterflies in my stomach since I’ve never had before, presented and explained something in front of such experts.  But, the clocks ticked and the earth was revolving as I doing, and I finished just fine.  We made certain modifications as per the recommendation of the experts and another state representative presented the youth-charter for the other theme.  Then after spieling at length about probable solutions, we had come to a consensus and finalized the youth-charter.  Then the much anticipated moment took place—the declaration of the names who would be representing north-east at the final stage of the youth debatathon.  Pinky madam, one of the jury members declared the result and somewhere, I heard my name being called out, mu vision was blurry and I thought for a while that ‘It was a mistake’, but it was real.  Then I awkwardly shambles toward the dais to collect my not-believed trophy.  Everyone was clapping and chanting my name, it was ‘STRANGE’.

Then to make the moment much more memorable, Pinky called out my teammate’s name.  Yeah, even Patrina was a bit surprise, I could see from the looks on her face.  Yes, the both of us has gone through the test of fire and ready for the final battle.  Daphi, of Meghalaya was also chosen among the three top-representatives and another three were selected as members of Team North-East although they were not among the top three.  Another vote-of-thanks like was done by our facilitators and SPYM gave each of us a memento—a bamboo beer mug.  Curtain closed and the show was after three strenuous days of brain-sucking and painstaking meeting.

Whenever I have been given a platform to raise my voice and opinion, I always attend and rush for the front seats like an uninvited guest at a party.  The youth are often being neglected even though we are the pillars of tomorrow for our country.  Especially when it comes to key issues related to growth, development and upliftment of the poor and unprivileged people, our opinions are often neglected.

I thank Plan India and SPYM for providing us the right platform and the opportunity to express ourselves.  My faith in humanity has been rejuvenated on witnessing that many organisations and their people have been selflessly fighting to remove poverty and inequality and voice out for the under-privilege people.  As a welfare-oriented aspiring economist, the things that you’ve ben doing is exactly what I aspire to do as well.  It has been a huge, authentic and unique experience for me.  It was one of the grandest weekends I’ve ever spent and my takeaways are huge.  Father Jerry’s words reverberate in my head, ‘Give the youth some spaces to freely rebel.’  The way we’d rebelled for the weekend would surely make at least one person better-off.

I hope, Delhi would be awesome as well.  Hey Delhi, can you hear me? Team North-East is coming.  And remember, It’s a part of India.

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On economics  & literature 

The most interesting part of being an economics student is the fact that, I can make up incongruous and incredulous assumptions based on the questions and scribble many pages that can’t be true or untrue.

Today, we had our 1st internal on Economics of Social Sector. I expounded my statement on human resources through the life experiences I’ve had and made up some techniques and rationales for measuring human resource/capital.
I wonder why people always give me that admired look on their face whenever I tell them I a student of economics. Yes, this subject of ours sounds savvy and technical with all its mathematics, statistics and philosophical ideology that are being used extensively for a better understanding of the subject matter. Well, truth be told, if one knows the basics, it is one of the easiest academic disciplines.
There has been a plethora of research, analyses and theses that have tried to define the complexities involved in our today’s economics-ridden world. But none of them has fitted in the real world scenario. I don’t say that it’s useless and in fact, much of these findings have been used for developing blueprints and forecasting the unexpected contingencies that could have happened in the future. Had it not been for Lord Keynes, we would still use the gold standard and much of our today’s international trade would have been profitable only for richly resources endowed countries.
And if not for the works of our very own Bengali-Indian Amartya Sen, much of the development and aid projects of the UN might have gone to the wrong countries instead of the much needy ones like the African countries.
In short, my subject is the study of how to make the best choice out of scarce resources and the trade-off one has to make in almost every aspect of life. It includes being critical and argumentative in every decision-making process. Whenever there are three economists discussing about a particular topic, there will be always be more opinion than the persons being involved, maybe at least four or five opinions will eventually come up.
But on my part, I have gained a lot from learning economics. I traded-off for English literature back in 2011 and I think, as of today, it was the wisest choice I’ve ever made. I am now zealous to become a welfare economist so that at least, I could reduce inequality and the prevailing poverty that pervades widely in this part of world. Because God will not come to earth and redistribute wealth to each and everyone. But having said all these, my predilection for literature can’t get out of my life.
Today, I was a lone wolf in my OE class. People keep on telling me I’ve been a fool for always opting literature classes because the marks we get are usually lesser than other disciplines. But on my part, I’ve always believed in the truism that, marks don’t give quality. I think one of the most important virtues of human life is empathy. I learn a lot when I study and indulge my thoughts in literature. I have become more tolerant and less judgmental.
I think, if I were to make value judgement, an understanding of literature and economics makes a complete human being. Maybe the western intellectuals know this, because other than sciences, they’re the only disciplines one could win a Nobel Prize, the most coveted accolade on earth.

The Cabin

The cabin smells of roasted nicotine and the faint fragrance of petrichor that has been caused by the slight drizzle, makes the moment quite nostalgic.  Jerry has been sitting all morning, in a rocking chair beside an old rustic bed that might have stories to tell, had it been able to talk.  
The sultry summer has just ended the week before.  A gentle breeze sways that has an augurs implication that the coming autumn is going to be full of mirth and merry.  Jerry feels the breeze touching his skin since he keeps his windows ajar for he has no ashtray to dispose his cigarette buds.  He can hear the  cackle of girls and some boisterous young men enjoying the Sunday afternoon, drinking in revelry. Under the shade of a huge Bunyan tree, sitting on top of the many gravestones since the place is a graveyard. 
Jerry is irked by their dalliance; he has sacrificed his precious weekend to have a tranquil and peaceful time in the periphery of the city, away from the madness of the urban life.  Since the little farm house owned by his father is adjacent to the graveyard; a safe-haven for the youths to have fun without any need for caution—especially on Sundays since there are no recreation centres or pub in the city—against the stringent rules that have been imposed by the government—which recently legalizes the sale of alcohol in the state. Erstwhile to the enactment of the new ‘Liquor Prohibition And Control Act’ by the legislature only a year ago, the procurement as well as selling of alcohol is a crime and a punishable offence. Albeit the government deliberately laid down the action plans for the newly enacted Act, implementation is quite unsatisfactory, like religion; impeccable in verbal but lacking a practical validity.
Jerry tries to neglect the annoyance by picking up one of the magazines he has brought along with him while wishing that a huge cascade of furious rain would occur.  His face bears a sheer implication that the noise has clearly killed his musing.  He opens the September issue of ‘Lengzem‘ and turns his favourite column, a sarcasm page called ‘An ti’.  One of the memes catches his eyes which says ‘Mizoram is used to be called “the wettest dry state” but now it is the driest wet state since the state has been in a financial crisis’.  He gives a sardonic smile and thinks about the finer nuances of the meme.  It could have meant that the government desperately enacted the new Act, in hope of procuring revenue out of liquor tax that it can levied which may consolidate the precarious financial situation, in the corruption ridden bureaucracy that ultimately puts the state in mendicancy.  
Politics never once intrigues him, he always has the notion that politics is the devil that drapes himself to enslave the ignorant and working class.  He has plight his fidelity to none of the social institutions.  In a world where justice is a game, he chooses to remain indifferent. 
Then Jerry turns to the literature column and read a article titled ‘Ka khaw tihdan’ written by a guy named Jojo Mizo.  It talks about various things—lifestyle, language and habit—that are authentic and unique to the particular village it talks about; but at some other place it might lose its validity.  The article mainly stresses on the perks of living a bucolic and rustic life.  He finishes the article and for the first time in a long while, he has read its entirety.  
Jerry has been facing deadline after deadline in his lucrative business of selling fine-arts and paintings.  He has given up his profession as a painter a year earlier due to the fact that he had broken his index finger in an accident; but he still runs his business by employing talented artists and collecting fine-arts and antiques. He owns one of the biggest galleries in the city and he has quite gained popularity and trust by the public since he has been in the business for more than a decade.  But when a hobby becomes a job, it always leads to ennui.  The fact remains true to Jerry as well; though his profession gives him a good name, privilege, reputation and most of all, money, his desire to quit or continue has been more or less the same throughout especially during the last three hundred and sixty five days where he has been fighting with anxiety and stress. 
And on this auspicious afternoon, Jerry is in insouciance amidst the irritating noise and anxiety, for he is being borne back into the time of his life.  Thanks to the power of literature, the one article he has just read.  He flashes back into his youthful days when he was rusticated by his dad to one of his uncles homestead at a small town near the international boarder in the east.
He was in his last year of college; but he was still a young, immature and arrogant young man.  His father was worried that he would turned out to be one of the many spoiled children who did not pay any heed to the culture and customs of their society.  Back then, the very identity of their community had been shaken due to cultural assimilation and globalisation.  Brands and companies that were alien hit their domestic market and television and movie which they had never seen before invaded their home.  Drugs and hippy lifestyle corroded the life of the youth who were the future of their tiny little community.  Jerry was one of those vulnerable young men.
It took Jerry a strenuous three days and nights bus ride to reach his uncle’s place since transportation was difficult due to bad road and harsh terrain.  He had spent three months there, with his uncle’s family and a small community of not more than a thousand in terms of population.  His uncle would teach him the way of the native.  He had to wake up by five in the morning and then fetch water at the spring-well which was about two kilometres form his uncle’s house. After the morning meal, he would follow his uncle to the farm field and learn the way of the farmer. In the evening, his uncle would take him to see traps. Sometimes they would track animals in the night, went on hunting expedition with some other men at the village.  By and by, he started to love the new lifestyle, plus he knew too well that being obstinate and stubborn would do no good.  The kind of life he was living was quite the way he wanted to be. His rustication was the one that had really ignited his artistic and aesthetic view towards life.  He had been scribbling and sketching all along, even before his rustication; but it was his little experience that had led him to become a full-fledged artist.  
But there was something more to remember and to cherish for Jerry.  It was the harvesting season and every family would help each other day by day until the harvest of one particular family’s land is completed.  This kind of practice is called ‘lawm’. It was in one of these faithful encounters that he had met his only lover. The autumn sun was harsh and the clouds were rarer than a speck of diamond and it seemed everyone was quite tired already even before eating ‘chaw chhun’ (Lunch).
The owner called for a gathering at the ‘thlám’ (hut) to eat and drink. At the thlám, he was sitting with his uncle when a young wide-eyed and long-haired damsel gave her a scoop of rice and a glass of water which she had fetched form the valley.  When he saw her face, he felt as if he had just been struck by a lightning and remained frozen for a while.  It was one of those rarest moment in one’s life, when the eye has just seen something and then captures that one tiny perfect point of vision as if it were a photograph and keep inside the labyrinth of memories that would then and again, casts before one’s vision as clear as the moment whether the encounter been yesteryears ago.  He had forgotten to thank her for the service she rendered; his uncle shook him off from his daydream and he felt a little embarrassed, he blushed a bit but compliment her anyway, his voice was lost in the din of the crowd. 
During dinner he asked his uncle, ‘Uncle who was that girl with the long black hair?’ 

‘Oh! She’s the daughter of our Elder Thanga.  She’s one of the most educated girl in our village, she has already completed her higher secondary in Champhai,’ replied his uncle. 

‘I’m asking you her name uncle, not her father’s’

‘Oh! She’s Lianpari, we call him Partei,’ 

‘Thank you,’ 
As they were talking about the day and other things, the ‘tlangau’ (Crier) was announcing that they had a social casualty. One of the oldest men in the village passed away mainly because of his debility and no particular illness could be named for his demise.  His uncle insisted him to go to the ‘Khawhar in’ (House of the mourn) and told him that he could invite Sangteii for his company and since most of the women would also go to the Khawhar in.  At first Jerry hesitated but since it would be the only chance to see the damsel that sways his heart, provided that that he would be leaving the coming week.  Like a loser betting on his last dime, he went towards her house calculating the probability of whether she would be his companion for the night or not.  During those time, every man had the right to ask the company of woman in times of social service like this and the pretty women were mostly sought after by the men. 
But that night, a guest luck was on his side, Pari had accepted his invitation. The rest of the things that happened that night, or the story after that fated night, is more or less the same like every love story, blended with ups and downs, euphoria and despair.  But the most interesting thing is that Jerry’s love story ended in tragedy. 
Jerry has been reminiscing for almost an hour or so when he hears a repetitious knock on his door which shakes him off from his daydream.  He reluctantly gets off from his rocking char and opens his door.  A young girl with a worrying look in her face desperately asks him,

‘Mister can you please help us, one of my friends has fallen from the gravestone and his head can’t stop bleeding,’ 

Jerry knows that he have to help them though it clearly annoys him to the core, 

‘Ok! Calm down young girls, tell the others to bring him here, I will prepare my car,’ 

‘Thank you so much mister,’ says the girls and leaves immediately to tell her friends. 
Jerry goes inside and take his coat and hat and then his Ford’s sedan key. Outside the other boys have carried the injured lad and lay him on the little bench at the porch of the cabin.  His head has been bleeding and Jerry knows that it will have to be sutured in order to stop the bleeding.  He asks the boys to let him sleep on the backseat as he goes inside the car.  The girl takes the front-seat. Then Jerry switch on the car, the engine ignited and they drive off toward the city.  
On the way, he asks the girl to call his parents and tell them they are on the way to the community hospital.  But the girl hesitates and begs him not to call the lad’s parents. Jerry is baffled by her reply and asks, 

‘Why? You know this is important, it could be a matter of life and death,’ 

‘Aaaa mister, his parents will not answer my call anyway since it is Sunday,’ 

‘Oh! Why is that so,’ 

‘Because I’m sure they’ll be busy as usual,’ 

‘What are they doing,’ 

‘They will be out attending services and fellowships and won’t pick up their phone,’ 

‘Is that so! Ok, I understand little girl, I clearly understand,’ replies Jerry and asks no more questions. 
So, a young girl, a man in his prime and an injured lad are driving to the city towards the hospital.  Jerry is reminded of something which is almost the same as last autumn; but they were the victim then, when a drunken driver hit their car and one life was lost, the life which he shall trade for all the paintings and fine-arts he had in his repository, because she was her priceless art—the one thing that makes him feel something and ignites the artistic passion in him. As his car bends toward the first corner of the highway, he sees his sutured index finger as he twists the steering; a bitter souvenir of his loss.  All through their way to the city, Jerry tells himself that had he been a writer, the event which takes place in that faithful Sunday afternoon could have been a wonderful, audaciously blazing and fascinating story.

An eulogy for a giant

 

Mr Chairman, thank you for giving this wonderful opportunity to speak on behalf of my fellow classmates.
In my younger days, my father used to tell me there are three kinds of noble jobs—teaching, preaching and healing.  Out of these, only one can be more nobler than the two, and I sincerely believe if I say teaching is the greatest of all profession, that one could take up during one’s lifetime, none of us won’t beg to differ.
To give my statement its due credulity, there’s no other person except the one whom we’ve been having this function for.  There may not be many other teachers like our respect and revered Sir SK Ghosh, who live up to the standard and the quality of being a great teacher.
Sir, it’s been an honour and a grand privilege to be able to be nurtured and taught by you.  We, as a student of economics, have known many new things that were before, esoteric and alien to our mental faculty.  The way you turn hard-core theories into a piece of cake is something not everyone could do.  Moreover, having being told that you came here way back in the 80s in this part of the most racist hills of the north-east, just to teach some tribals economics, I, as well as my fellow students, give you our utmost respect for your audacity and sincerity.
It is said that a successful teaching career is not measured on the amount of accolades or citations that one’s procured; but the number of successful people that one has produced.  By this definition, you have stood on the podium of success.  You have produced some of the highest ranking bureaucrats, intellectual and thinkers of our state.  And we, your last batch of post-graduate students, want to reassure you that the list will continue in the coming future.
You are a father-figure to us.  You’ve always been generous to us and your affinity is beyond comparable.  You treat the most brilliant and imbecile alike.  You never discriminate on the ground of religion, gender or outlook.  You have truly changed the way we stereotype the mainlanders, and we will always cherish your magnanimity and benevolence.  We hope that the other faculty of this department will follow the algorithm you’ve developed—of generosity and affinity.
On being told that you wouldn’t be able to teach us in the last semester due to some ailments, our shock and grief had been profound.  It was one of the most rueful things students had to accept during their master’s.  Our marginal utility had plummeted sharply, and there were no close substitute because our demand for your lecture was perfectly inelastic.  No one could fill the gap you’d left behind and as a result, the social welfare of our class was decreased sharply.  This has been empirically supported by the GDP, or the result, of the previous semester.
There is one universal truth one has to accept in life—the end of something. To quote Keynes, ‘In the long-run we all die.’ is an analogy that even you have to part ways with us.  Your retirement is like an inflationary pressure that every economist tries to prevent but eventually fails. So, with the utmost respect and the warmest gratitude, we, the class of 2016, bid you farewell with the hope that your diabetic feet would turn into a happy feet for the remains of your lifetime.
Thank you.

PS: Humbled and blessed to be able to speak on behalf of my classmates.

 

In Waldosia

I wonder why the kàwn is always teeming with people.  Here and there, people are moving as if they were automated with some specific commands inscribed in each and everyone’s brain.  I usually feel shy to look at other people’s faces.  Because when I have an eye contact with someone, I feel disoriented since my brain instantly has to figure out what that person might have been feeling the moment we look at each other.

I think one has to have the chutzpah to look at someone without losing one’s poise.  It also takes quite a decorum because staring at someone with a blank face and emotionless expression is one kind of modern-day-rudeness.  We were taught in elementary to be affable to people on the road because it could be the last time we ever see them.

To quote ‘Man is a social animal’ is like to coerce someone to oblige that showing a face which has a gamut of indecipherable  emotions is a vice.  ‘Always be kind to strangers’ is also another adage which has an ulterior implication: If you do not smile at someone you’ve met for the first time, they’ll for ever be your enemy.  Well, it seems I have many vices being committed and enemies multiplied as the clock ticks by.

A wise man, I forget the name, says that waiting is the attribute of the anxious.  He must have been right when I ponder about his statement keenly.  When someone is anxious, he is almost always too little too early.  So, he has to wait and waste time—the most valuable commodity man has ever invented.  I wonder why I almost always get the fidget when I’ve had something to do in the near future.  Like, when exams are near, I get the exam-fever even when I do not bother to study at all.  So when exams start, I resort to reaching the examination hall with a handsome hour still left to go.  To tell you the truth, killing time at the examination hall is the worst kind of waiting.  Had I been a sadist, I would surely torture someone by letting him wait for a caravan in a desert that would never arrive.  How sweet would that be!

I remember one occasion, if memory serves me right, when I had to wait for you at a bus stand.  I had to endure my worst nightmare—waiting and being exposed in public with strangers.  It was the worst fifty one minutes of my life.  But you had finally arrived with a thousand alibis ready to be spoken out in ingratiation.  You smiled at me and it had the implication that everything was fine, would be fine, and finally broke the ice with ‘sorry I’m late Bud’.

Today, I did the test of patience.  I’d been sitting on a waiting shed for three emotionally strenuous hours.  I was scanning my vicinity and had to smile nonchalantly at the faces I’ve never met before.  Amidst those, I was hoping to see your face that would relinquish me from the torture I had to bear alone.  But you never arrived because our rendezvous wasn’t the one where I was resting my bum.  Then I realized I had to text you, but I was running out of data balance.

Miss Marauder

Miss Marauder

For Ilauza,
I listen to
Maroon 5’s daylight
as if it were
my first time.
The dawn
is breaking
with the scent
of petrichor lingering
in this twisted atmosphere
which is exactly like
your capricious fidelity.
Because these days
it rains in the night
when the sun
scorches the day.
Things seem to slip
away from its
usual trajectory.
You absconded
with my heart—
the one thing
I couldn’t keep.
And how the last
time I saw you:
you promised me
the faithfulness
of Altivo to Cortez.
That you would be
my today waiting
for ever for
the morrow ahead.
You build a house
of card with the spoils
of love you pillaged
from me. My soul is a
dilapidated fortress
beleaguers by nostalgic
nightmares & bitter-sour
technicolour memories.
I’m trying hard
to contemplate that
ours had been
a beautiful, splendid sight
like a child looking at
a diffusing contrail
for the first time
in awestruck wonder
even when the plane
has already left
far ahead.
I wonder why
time is always
generous to me.
I wish it stole
all the details
of your memory
for itself.
And time flies;
but never heals.

 

The System!

Almost all of my interest in economics has been nullified. It’s been the worst injustice I’ve ever suffered. Now I’m convinced, my bad handwriting is going to haunt me throughout my academic career. If I could get 9 more marks (which I’m wholly convinced I earn them), I would have earned 12 more credit points.
I think it’s time for me to exonerate myself; but the system tells me I’ll have to pay ₹2,200 for the mistake I’ve never made. I’m also chafed to see that 50 master’s students answer sheets have to be evaluated within 48 hours. Gosh! I hate the system.
Can anybody elucidate me more about RTI? It seems I can see my answer sheets if I write an application using this Act. But 7.181 GPA is not that low tho’. Still, the fundamental law of economics still holds true, ‘Human wants are unlimited’, and I am human.
I never compete with anyone, I only compete with myself. But it’s just that, I can’t believe it! When you sacrifice everything and toil with sweat and blood for two whole months, sleep less than 5 hours, I think no one will blame me for my indignation.
69 has become the number I hate the most. Because I get this fuckin’ number in three papers! If I get one more mark each, I could have get 10 more credit points! Huizzz