FLYING

The sky crashed at my feet today

In frothy bubbles and foam

Gurgled up to my knees

And vanished as it touched the skin

In a frantic swirl

Of giddy

Excitement and emotion

The water rushed

in and out

The sand dissolved

The sky and the sea united

And in the blue and white

I soared...

Speeding towards the waves

Flying is not a mere word

Neither sailing just a song

Come fly with me

And sing of freedom and hope

THE OLD MAN

I met a man yesterday
With eyes as old
as time.
Eyes
gray and dull
and nothing like
the pretty flowers
he sold.


Saw sadness
saw fear
saw loneliness
whirl around
and whisk
tears that cried
anguish
and
pain.


Throat constricted
cry stifled
the eyes
were speaking
to me
I stood to leave
and
leave I did
for it wasn’t me.

I don’t make things right.

This old man
made me think
I could love
Make him live
put a silver gleam
in his eyes
But leave I did
for it wasn’t me.

I don’t set things right.

I could
Sit and talk
and spare few hours
of my life.
That’s all.

wondering why?

I don't know what made me remember my blog today. I opened it and noticed that tomorrow will be exactly one year since I have posted. I think I love writing because I feel that that I need to express myself. But when have I been writing? The blog shows I have been neglecting it for far too long. Sorry for the, too often, usage of "I". I cant help it since I am talking about myself here. There we go again. Never mind.

Well there is this need to put on paper, document if necessary, what is churned inside the head and the heart; which are linked by a thin but unbreakable thread (of whatever), emotions perhaps, knowing that I am more of an emotional being.

But I hardly write. I get this feeling, often, that I need to let everything out - the good and the bad- from my system in a more appropriate and creative way. I feel the need to write but there is no subject, I feel the need to paint but what do I paint? and I feel the need to sing but I croak midway. I look into the mirror and see myself. Nothing else.

Do I expect the image to talk back to me or carry on singing where I left, as if she could sing and not I? Do I expect my face to contort or roar or just grin like an evil witch?

Maybe I wait, wait for creativity to come crashing from the heavens or erupt from the depths of the earth. Maybe I find the reason why I wonder why. Maybe a small patch of garden with a bunch of flowers will ease my soul. Maybe the spring shower will wash away this feeling of nothingness. Maybe.

I will step out on the street and get lost among people, noise and dust. Walk on like everyone does, talk when required, smile to acquaintances passing by,  and get startled if a vehicle honks too suddenly. Just be a person, react and stop wondering why.

FOR KARMA YANGZOM

It’s a Monday night 

I call her up

“Ama,

It’s me Kinley,

I am waiting outside.”

She opens the door 

And the warmth 

Oozes out. 

I walk in 

Put down my bag 

And put on a tired look

She asks,

“How are you feeling,

how’s the cold?”

much better-

I answer

Guilt creeping in.

I had gone out 

With office friends 

For a drink or two

And my head is swimming

(even now)

“There is food in the kitchen,

I prepared your favourite”

Its ok- I say 

“I have already eaten” 

I don’t thank her

I never have. 

She goes back to watching TV

She watches the Hindi soaps

It’s always been her favourite

She knows Hindi more than English

Maybe-that’s why the connection. 

She pronounces silk…

Si—lik 

It is cute. 

Sometimes I shout at her

She does too

Not because 

We take each other for granted

But because we love each other. 

I remember my life so far

And I remember her

Always there

In words and in deeds

Advising, supporting and protecting 

But never doubting 

Me for anything, 

Nor my capabilities

I see her 

And I smile 

The journey she has made

The hurdles she had overcome

I smile again 

And weep at the same time

I am overcome with emotions

She is my mother 

And far more than god

She loves me 

Never denies me

She supports me 

Never forgets me

She will eat 

But never be full 

Before she feeds me

She will sleep 

But never rest 

Before I go to sleep

She will hit me 

But feel the pain

And when I am lonely 

And far away from home

She will fill my thoughts 

And rescue me from misery

She will be my prayer 

That I will chant 

Till I fall asleep

Safe in her bosom 

And I will find home

THOUGHTS ON A RAINY DAY




The heater's on. The pale white washed room is lit up. Outside, the light drizzle that's been falling has stopped. I can see the dark mountain outlined against the pale gray sky, the vehicles at the parking lot and a few people moving in and out from one section of the office to the other. I am sitting inside my cubicle and wondering... why do i feel trapped? I ponder. I would rather be on the road, in a car watching the rain cleanse the earth and all that it hold.

... in a car winding up and down the road in the valley, past villages and towns, through the huge forests that loom over the top and give you a feeling that the trees are closing in around you. I would love to be on the moutain tops ... watching the moutain ranges on the otherside...feel and see it all.

A short ride to an office near the dzong stirred this feeling in me. I want to be on the move, see faces, places, see everything and in the process learn, absorb and understand all there is to know.

The leaves on the willow trees hung lower than usual from the weight of the waterdroplets but the beauty of the tree was exposed because the rain had washed away the dirt. The flowers too.

Ah... and I love the smell of the earth after rain.

THE ART OF STAYING YOUNG


I turned 24 two days back and I can’t help but remember the time I joined the nursery in Gomtu. I was four years old. There are things that I remember; of innocence and of how I used to wish I would grow up fast so that I could put on make up and be pretty. I thought my life was stagnant and that I was forever playing with my friends, never growing up. I swear I had no idea about the troubles that awaited me.

Sigh... and now I look back and wish I were four, fourteen or nineteen. Four because I would be starting school and my sitter would walk me or carry me to the nursery. Fourteen because I would be in high school with friends, gossiping about the cute guys, puppy love and of romance which was a smile... a blush... a shy look ... holding hands and butterflies in the stomach. Nineteen ... because I would be in college with friends trying out the new and wild things in life and rejoicing in our newfound freedom. But I assure you we were still innocent.. as innocent as a wide-eyed child who had seen the biggest Popsicle ever.

These are all memories now and each birthday that I celebrate makes me turn back to these memories. But as I recollect these moments I do not languish and brood for I have responsibilities and I have dreams. I am not stuck in the moment and I do not intend to be of any age for more than a year, as some like to do.

So ... at this stage, having recollected and narrated my past and what I intend to do henceforth, I will talk about the Art of Staying Young.

While a middle aged woman giggles at something someone says in a girlish manner or whisper into someone's ear while the rest of the people in the room watch, the Art of Staying Young is being put to practice. Similarly an adult man who is in his 50s, 60s or 70s is in pursuit of a girl three or four decades younger than him, he too is practicing the art.

Somehow through these antics, practitioners seem to find solace able to convince themselves, if not others, that they can still be young by acting young. This is the Art of Staying Young.

However, to observers the difference between the way these people act and their physical appearance is ironic, ludicrous and a gruesome picture. The wrinkles, the salt sprinkled hair, the degenerating body... that however, thank god to plastic surgery, can be manipulated to fit the age they wish to be if they have the means.

At the end of the day when each of us is fed to the flames or to the worms, where and what would we want ourselves to be? Young or Old. What would you want your life story to be like, if suppose you could watch your life on earth, like we did a movie, from the other world.

Instead of holding on to what has already left one should move on with each passing day; growing older but wiser, older but stronger, older but experienced rather than holding on to the youth of your life even as you body fails you, only to realise when death comes that there were far more greater things that life could have offered you.