What more can one possibly write about the mess that is Manipur, which hasn't been said and done and analyzed already? What more would one possibly want to say about the subject anyway?

Everyone knows what it is. It smells and looks more awful with each passing moment, the fetid odors growing more repulsive, the stench becoming more unbearable. Long after the deed has been done, and the wind and storms have come and gone, the evidence lingers on.

If there ever was a pit stop for the stinker, then we are perhaps, in the right place. __it happens. And then it happens again.

9 months and a day have gone by since we proclaimed glad tidings of peace and prosperity to each other. More have been born during this time; more have died. No one has lived; no one has believed. No one has seen the light.

In the midst of all this darkness, a dark man sat in the shadows of his shaded castle, and threw dark words and phrases out of dark air into the ever-expanding dark ages. Why he does it, no one really knows.

Is it defiance? The arrogance of critical gymnastics, perhaps? Or more likely, an angry man who takes up pen rather than sword to show contempt for the idiocy all around him.

He woke up later than usual this morning. Something about the weather outside made him wary of the great outdoors. A dim and ghostly light proclaimed the beginning of the day. The rain fell in steady rhythmic drops, an incessant drumbeat of static on the roofs and walls.

The air hung thick and moist around the four corners of his world. A world more asleep than awake, a world reluctant to part with the comfort of warm insulated dreams. He opened his eyes and thought about all this for one sleepy second. Not daring to disagree, he shut his heavy eyes promptly with a smile.

Outside in the rain, the crows waited. They had nothing else to do. The curses of humanity rested heavy on their dripping wings and beaks. Being black made them more obvious by daylight, but it didn't really matter too much. Black was acceptable in this part of the world. They roamed free and plundered at will.

Today they had their eyes set on the boring man's kitchen. But where was he? They looked at each other and shared a knowing glance. Fast asleep, like the rest of the other bores. They huddled closer and focused their beady eyes on the small window of opportunity that would open up eventually. They had nothing else to do.

The rain stopped and silence began, while the dream ended. Not a nice way to end the dream of a lifetime. Dreams are like movies, better with full surround sound. Just as the Pulitzer acceptance speech gets underway, when he had thanked God and editor and publisher and wife and kids and family, the crescendo of applause grows thinner and lighter and gives way to caws. The caws grow louder as the heavy mist of sleep clears. The day begins with a random selection of choice expletives.

He makes up his mind to unleash the full force of wrath on the crows. Hell hath no fury than a man rudely awakened. Scrambling outside, he searches for some rock to hurl at those winged reprobates who would dare disturb his dreams.

Scrounging around freshly watered earth in half-awake state was not a good idea. He finds only a handful of fresh, wet mud and a foot full of the same. You can never find something when you need it the most. Other times, you can never get enough of it.

Looking skyward for some assistance, he spies a lone guava on a low branch. He leaps up and grabs at it with an outstretched right hand. The over-ripe fruit squishes and explodes to a pulp - pink plaster with dotted seeds spreading evenly all over his palms and fingers. More expletives follow. This was not going to be a nice day.

He finds a fallen branch and grips it with twice the necessary force. Red faced and pink fingered, he scans the surroundings for his targets. The crows are perched atop the low fencing to his north. The stick flies through the air along with the most lethal four-letter word of the morning. If only words could kill.

The missile misses the first target by inches. It finds the neighbor's window on the other side of the fence, and locks on with precision. The glass shatters the morning calm. The noise is distinctly unmistakable. So are the screams of its most dreaded occupant. This was definitely not going to be a nice day.

It takes all of four seconds for the ghastly woman to appear at the scene of the crime. Three seconds to inspect and recover the weapon from the debris of the window. Two seconds to deduce that the branch came from the only guava tree in the vicinity. One second to declare war across the border.

He stands transfixed as the monster approaches. A 95-kilo woman charging at you with red face and wild hair and kitchen broom and wagging index finger is the most terrifying sight on the planet. Words fail him. A "Good Morning" was out of the question.

The crows are nowhere to be seen. Trust evil to flee when judgment day approaches. He contemplates taking flight for a split second, but realizes that he is standing on slippery ground. Putting on his most innocent face, he hastily begins preparing for his defense.

His opening argument falls flat with the very first syllable.
'Caw…. Caw…calm down, madam.'
'Crow…. crow…. crows did it!'

'The crows! And I suppose you think I'm going to believe that!'

'It was most extraordinary.'
'Really, madam, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.'
'The crows were all carrying this branch, one of them lost his grip and it fell.'
'They must have been flying at least 50 feet high.'
Desperate flurries of arm and hand movements accompany the fable.

Wild woman looks on unconvincingly. She moves to strike.
'Crows carrying branches!'
'Do you think I'm mad?'
The awesome hand curls into a tight fist. The broom looms menacingly inches from his head. Seconds away from blastoff.

'No, Madam, I don't think you're mad.'
'The crows were mad! They were all mad!'
'Very mad bad crows!'
More wild gestures in desperate appeal for saving face and skin and hide.

The good neighbor has not crossed the short fence to listen to a tall tale. She has come to deliver justice. Against a man who called her all sorts of names, refused to join her Amyway circle, went to a different Baptist Church, played his stereo too loud, drove a 4-wheeled vehicle, never offered her a lift to Imphal, ran over her chicken. And broken her windowpane. Vengeance was hers.

She raises her war broom and moves in for the kill. The ground rushes beneath her feet. But it has been too well watered by the monsoon. She flies off the green layer of algae and takes off with both feet.

Gravity cuts short her brief flight and brings her crashing down. The impact shakes the earth violently. Mud splatters all around. Cracks and fissures spread out from the foot-wide crater. Time stands still. And then the screams begin.

The crows have been busy raiding the man's kitchen during the showdown. They have rummaged through every conceivable container, and discovered plenty of useful tidbits on the man's eating habits. The man definitely could do with some more green vegetables around here.

And a lot less salt in his diet. The minor earthquake shakes them out of their revelry. The screech of fallen blubber lends flight to their wings.

The din outside is becoming unbearable. A 95-kilo woman stuck in the mud with red face and wild hair and kitchen broom and wagging index finger makes the most ear-splitting noise on the planet.

Add a flurry of crows flapping out of the nearest window and the horror is complete. Caws and feathers and screams hang heavy in the damp morning air. The gravity of the situation is overwhelming. But not quite complete.

The second most dreaded sound on the planet is that of fresh bird dropping landing on one's head. The first salvo drops with precision on the biggest available target. It spreads into a thick gray paste on fallen woman's head.

The second salvo drops one foot away. It splatters her hand and fingers with more of the gooey substance. The crows are spot on. They can do no wrong today.

The man cannot but admire the masterpiece below him. The crows have achieved in five minutes what he could not do in five years. And also added some icing on the cake. It may not be such a bad day after all.

Fat and muddy woman has diverted all her ire on the crows. She staggers to her feet and returns fire at the fleeing bandits. Her good neighbor jumps into the fray most overenthusiastically. The combined barrage is absolutely lethal. If only words could kill.

The noise has by now attracted a small crowd of curious onlookers. A wordsmith and a 95-kilo woman with muddy face and airdropped hair and kitchen broom and wagging index finger jumping up and down and shouting at the sky is not something you see every day.

'What's going on?' Someone asks.
'They're cursing the gods.' Comes the reply.
'But why? What have the gods got to do with it?'
'No gas, no petrol, no kerosene, no network, no money, no security, no integrity.'
'Manipur has really become hell on earth.'
'I thought we usually call a bandh on such matters.'
'I think the bandh finally reached the gods.'
'But why blame the gods?'
'This is Manipur after all. Everyone blames everyone else.'
'It happens.'

Above the crowd, the crows hovered in a slow circle. They looked at each other and shared a knowing glance.

More still heads to lay fresh droppings upon. They took careful aim. They had nothing else to do.