Manipur: Forward in the Dark

Randhir Thiyam

Forward we march—
into a cave that calls itself home.

No map
No compass
No plan worth naming.
Just the stubborn choreography
of push and pull,
a nation dragging its own children
by the collar of history.

The river runs red—
not with sunset,
but with the thick arithmetic of blood
and the sour stench of yesterday’s promises
left too long in the heat.
Bones float like unfinished sentences.
Hope clings to the rocks,
slippery with rot.

Beasts prowl here—
not always furred,
not always fanged.
Some wear familiar faces,
speak fluent slogans,
and call the darkness destiny.

We advance, they say.
Forward, they insist.
Yet every step echoes
against the same blind walls.
Every shout returns unanswered,
draped in irony.

Inside this perfectly engineered night,
we grope for a dawn
someone forgot to design.
And still we move—
not toward light,
but deeper into the cave,
mistaking motion for meaning,
confusing survival
with salvation.