Meme

A weather-beaten wrinkled face that I knew like the back of my hand floated among the mass. Grayish-white hair and beard as long as that of a dwarf, it wasn’t just familiar. I knew it. The tshechu in all its splendid colours and music made it only more familiar.

It was a rendezvous with Déjà vu. The old man’s eyes kept following me through the crowd, weaving its way among the people. It never left me. I could see him watch me. It was like watching my life on television, although there was no disconnection between the physical me on the tube and the spiritual me watching what was happening. The emotions were one. And in an instant it dawned on me. “Meme!’ I cried out.

“I thought you’d never recognise me,” he said. His compassionate eyes were as wise as ever.

“I did,” I said but didn’t quite know how to explain that the one looking at the scene recognised him but not the one at the festival. “You should have come forward and talked to me.”

A distant sound of someone blowing a conch tore his gaze from me. I followed it and saw a monk on the steps of Zangtopelri blowing the creamish white shell. The serene blue sky gave way to dusk. The temple stood as if floating amid the green grass and the blue sky. “It is now time for me to leave,” said Meme, gazing at the temple with such serene face…it brings peace to my mind even now.

I don’t remember what I said. Maybe it was the calm elements of nature that brought peace to my heart and which stopped me from stopping him. I don’t recall Meme walking away from me. But I know he went to a place of peace and calm. A place where colours were soothing like the dull sun warming up your back on a lazy afternoon.

I woke up that morning feeling peace as I have never known before. I remember sharing this blissful dream with my parents when I was home from college for winter break. My father had said, “Meme must have got his place in Zangtopelri.”

“He really must be in heaven for I have stopped dreaming about him, which I usually do when it’s time to perform his annual funeral rites,” Ama added.

My grandfather passed away in the winter of 1995. I remember the look on ama’s face when I came home from my winter vacation. When she came out to help me with my luggage I excitedly started chatting but one look at her face and I knew something was wrong.

There were tents outside and, inside, our home was packed with relatives, friends and monks performing rites and rituals.

I don’t remember being sad. I don’t know why. Meme had passed away while I was traveling back home from almost a month’s stay at my maternal aunt’s home in Deothang.

Meme was bedridden for years after suffering from a stroke and getting partially paralysed. He had a rugged handsome face with long flowing white beard. He always wore a faded brown gho up to his ankle, like a gomchen.

I don’t regret not grieving his death, because I know he was a good man and that death was not the end. I remember him often- remember the tales of yeti encounters that he spoke of, of fireballs chasing him, and of his sword and his travels along the rugged terrains of eastern and western Bhutan.

My only regret is not being at his death bed. Ama said he remembered me before he passed away. I’ll always remember him too.

lil' Tenzi

My three-year-old niece is a baby with baby bangs and squinty little eyes. Aunty, I lob you,” she sings and my heart melts. She is an attention seeker who wants to be pampered by a special loved one in our family… just like me. So we compete for attention at home and jealousy burns ‘cold cold heart’.

So I push her away, ignore her but with my heart squeezed like it’s going to burst and overflow with love. A hardcore metallic outside- that’s a façade I put up for this little baby. A little whimper from her lips, I remind myself not to be beguiled, and then she starts questioning…. “Aunty what are you doing?” “ I am ironing,” I reply.

“What is ironing?”

“It makes clothes good,” I say not knowing how to explain creases to a baby.

“How?” she asks…

“By means of electricity,”

“What is electricity … Where is it?”

Her innocence touches me… “How much more innocent can one be,” I think … But instantly I am reminded of the enmity.

In the presence of the loved one she is an archenemy. I stoop over them with my eyes gazing and burning through her body as she rolls on the living room sofa with the loved one… the thunderous silence brewing in my head paused by childish cackles as the loved one tickles her.

At other times, I sit beside the loved one holding hands. A glint of jealousy in her eyes and she comes racing trying to entangle our fingers and trying to slip in her small paw.

The loved one laughs. I boil and burn. She struggles even as I tighten the grip. Now her face is contorted … she is ignored and not the apple of someone’s eyes. A wail slips from her lips… the loved one quickly releases the hand and tries to calm her.

Faster than lightening her face breaks into a smile. But surprisingly she snuggles onto my lap and leans on me, gazing upwards into my eyes. Her little paws gently tugging my fingers for comfort.

My heart melts again.

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