After Many Days...

After many days, I am trying to get my words done but the stumbling blocks laid on my path since a period of time has anesthetised my mind-set to such a magnitude of obscurity that writing seems really impossible for me nowadays. Still, I can’t remain immune towards the significance of this day, the day that marks an important event in the calendar of my life, not because it’s a New Year eve (though it keeps some special place in my heart and have some beautiful memories to share with) but because of an encounter with the God of my belief.

      I remember this day last year, struggling in the hospital bed fighting with my woes and it hasn’t got any better still but this fateful day mesmerizes my nerve with bliss amidst all those hurdles and tribulations. The feeble mind of a man with broken limbs and hopes can never point it that way and never was it my aspiration either but the destiny finally had something good for me after all those brunts of bad shower. My agnostic school of thought was shaken by advent of the God of belief that I never believed in... my God of faith, my essence of living, my articulation of existence. A year has passed by; 31st December was no more than a day of celebration for me before that but now it’s a day of prayers. I thank my destiny for putting me into such big troubles only to let me understand the happiness of small things. This metamorphosis of convictions and conventions will truly give a new course to my hopes.

      HAPPY NEW YEAR to all!!!

Some Poetries-IV

------------------------------------------------------------

All troubles and miseries

Looking at you

Changes into happiness

Are into blackmagic?

------------------------------------------------------------

When earthquake of misfortune

Strikes the epicentre of fate

What remains only is hope.

The tremor of your leaving behind

Didn’t even spare my hopes

Drowning me into oblivion.

------------------------------------------------------------

A tiny bud

With its colourful innocence

Swinging along the breeze

And gently soaked with the fluid of energy

Is growing with sun to absorb its confrontation.

 ------------------------------------------------------------

What is the result of one plus one?

Everyone says its two but I say its one only.

For me, everything is single from the day

You left

And everything alone

Like my deserted heart. 

------------------------------------------------------------

बागबजार: एक पोट्रेट

बाटो छेउमा

राती फ्याँकेको वासी फोहोरको दुर्गन्धसँगै

बागबजारले बिहानीको आँखा खोल्छ ।

रातको नशा अझै बाँकी छ?

नाक छोप्दै कुनै स्लम बस्तीमा हिँडेका ‘मर्निङ वाकरहरू’

फोहोरको डङ्गुरमा

आफूले राती फ्याँकेको मोबाइलको चार्जर खोज्दैछन् ।

कलेज जाने उत्ताउला ठिटीहरुलाई

चुरोटको सर्को तान्दै जब जिस्काउँछन् उन्मत्त ठिटाहरू

हाँसोको फोहोराले कुनै ‘कमेडी फिल्म’को ‘सिक्वेन्स’ तयार गर्दै हुन्छ ।

फोहोरमा जिन्दगी खोज्दै बालकहरू

‘डेन्ड्राइट’को नशामा जब बाटो काट्छन्

सुरक्षाको ‌डण्डाले बिथोलिएका प्रदर्शनकारीजस्तै

चिल्ला गाडीका हरनले तितरबितर तिनीहरूको भीड

कुनै गाडीमा कुँदिएको छ- “बाल सरोकार केन्द्र” ।

‘सटर’हरू खुल्छन्- चिया पसलमा भीड

अखबारमा छापिएको हिमानीको ‘प्याराग्लाइडिङ्ग’ को दृष्यमा

शुरु हुन्छ पारसका कर्तुतहरूको बेलिबिस्तार

एन्जेलिना र ब्राड पीटको गफमा मस्त ‘प्लस टु जेनेरेसन’

सन्तानको बारेमा चिन्तित अभिभावक

तरकारी किनेर फकर्दै गरेकी गृहणी

कोही इराकमा मारिएका नेपालीहरूको बारेमा

कोही हिजो हेरेको सिनेमाको प्रसङ्ग जोड्छन् ।

पुरानो कोटमा सजिएको एउटा कवि बाटो काट्छ

“एउटा कविता पुर्याउनु छ, पत्रिकाको लागि”

स्कुल जाने विधार्थीहरूको हूलबाट

कन्डक्टरको एकोहोरो चिच्याइमा अफिस जानेहरू

बस भित्रको ठेलमठेलमा आफ्ना गन्तव्य खोज्दैछन् ।

Getting Started: A Literary Journey

It is not long before when I realised the truth that writing has an immense strength, a power to hold thousand hearts at a time like an apostle addressing a congregation, such a crave that no hungry belly gets relinquished even by foods, an apex of satisfaction that one gets only once in a life-time, an immortal sense of freedom though grinded hard in the everyday factory of life. A regression in quest of knowledge, a movement started within me the day I was not really prepared for what  I afterwards figured out, preparations were never needed. It was instant and natural like the sparkling of a thunderbolt, so much feelings encircled me that I came to know how Laxmi Prasad Devkota could have written Kunjani in a whole-night, a thunderbolt of mind-set. I could have written even more but the only difference was, those feelings were very raw, not even suitable to have been poured in a scrap with dirty inks. They were teasers, exciters to encourage the sleeping ‘next-me’ inside me and my mind was asking for food, a food of thoughts, a food of matured conscience to fill the so far empty brain dying of a never-ending hunger.

            Ten years have slipped by but the quest going through many ups and downs is still meandering around, the writing though looking bit matured comparatively in certain groups is still crude. I remember my first attempt, a literary-beginning when I used to read the English verses and translate them into Nepali and vice-versa. The instigation was whatever, but it helped an ample in learning rather than in writing. Many might have felt the complex of when they get started, I also underwent but it was late before I accepted the reality that shaping feelings in a paper was a very hard task.

            There was a time when my Nepali was very poor though I am not still good with it and this proved to be the greatest boon for me to enter into the world of literature. If I’d been an average going in Nepali, I would have never dealt the massive books but luckily, my weakness at this moment of life turned out to be the greatest help for me. Our Nepali Sir often used to tell me practise reading and writing, there were many times I got humiliated, demoralized in class only because of my ill-knowledge in Nepali. The course for me was so tough to be dealt with and I used to feel very helpless. It was that time I really took Nepali studying seriously, as a challenge and started a thorough reading and writing of Nepali language and literature. Within a short span of six months, improvement in the ignorant me could be clearly seen, as faint traces of maturity had sprouted in the writing. And about a year after, I must have started writing nicely that in the last days of my school, I got a big inspiring compliment from the same Sir and it was that he wanted to keep my note-copy with him for reference to the junior students.

            Incidently, ‘SATHI’ itself was the first magazine to publish my article, nearly eight years ago.

Some Poetries-III

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote a story about a boy

Who was always happy and carefree.

The story was short and a happy-ending!

I folded the pages and placed it under my pillow

Morning, I again opened the pages to complete it

But the ending was already written,

Vacant, void as those white sheet of papers,

having faint traces of happy letters written yesterday.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I asked my past, "Who am I?"

Past replied, "Ask with your present."

I asked my present, "Who am I?"

Present replied, "Ask with my future."

I asked with my future also, "Who am I?"

Future remained silent where,

Past and Present were laughing at me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A seedling once thrown carelessly,

After thousands of years

Sprouted into a beautiful plant

Where pleasant flowers of my dreams

Bloomed like I'd yearned for so long.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The yatch of life flowing random

With the uneven tides of thunderstorm

The dark night engulfing

My destination with its fiery convolutions

Finally reaching the shores of void.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A New Dawn

The lustre of light has dispersed, its magnificent hues making the decorated lounge on the stage look vibrant, where Anmol and Sujata rendering the shades and sensations of their characters are completely lost in the boundaries of their art.

‘Let disaster reign the world… let the sky get ruptured… and the earth ripped… even if the sun loses its existence, I am still ready to take everything for you, just for your sake.’

‘No dear… how… how is our union possible?… such a lofty wall of society exists between us… this great mountain of riches stands stubbornly between your family, shimmering brilliantly with the splendours of prosperity and my family, entangled frigidly in the swirl of poverty.’

‘… this love… true love… genuine love… affectionate love… our love… will bloom like flowers in the garden of fortune, where other radiant flowers will behold the very being of our bond. Soaking in the shower of that ecstasy, we will back each other in every ups and downs of life; smearing the colours of that joy, we will overcome every hardship that hinders our subsistence.’

The clattering of claps covered the hall… but even in that distinguished sound of admiration, Anmol today felt that his performance looked simulated, not natural as before. In other words, his romantic reflections with Sujata today seemed insignificant. However, he knew that the history of his past had made the acting of his present look lively in the eyes of spectators. Some youths started bounding and whistling uncontrolled. More of its drive than its deluge has brought Tsunami in the hearts of the viewers… they were drifted by its flow to an isle of bliss.

The curtain is again raised and this time, with the introduction of artists. All artists are standing in a queue with their hands joined. The announcer starts the acquaintance. The spectators, with thunderous clapping, produce sounds of appraisal. Finally is the turn of the protagonists. The viewers cannot refrain themselves from coming to the stage, hauling, embracing and congratulating Anmol for his outstanding staging.

Anmol, engaging himself in tape-recorded answers of constant ‘thank-yous’, could hardly afford time and opportunity to speak anything more.

Some Poetries-II

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Too many people

Too many questions

No Answers

Is it politics?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

So easy it was

To make people laugh at other's misery

Now it is so hard

To stop people from laughing at his own misery.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime ago

I was hallucinated

I didn't recognize anyone,

I was throwing words at them and snatching hopes from them.

A flash and

I found myself in the streets

Those people throwing hopes at me and snatching words from me.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The heat of the battlefield

After a long war

Still breathes the cool air of peace

Besieged long before.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

My Childhood Vacation

After hearing about our great grandma’s death, I suddenly remembered my childhood days when our winter vacation would transport us to our grandma’s farmhouse from our schools in Sikkim. I used to run, without much haste to reach home, just to find her sitting on the terrace of one of our fields when others would direct their way to the house. I used to return home in the evening fastened on her back with sweets in my hands, only ending up to quarrel with Uppa for not letting her have some. I was very much familiar to that place, where Uppa, Robin and I have many times tried to climb the trees just to pluck a mango or a bunch of hog plum and bruised ourselves. The sixty-five years old historical farm-well that witnesses all of our birth was our favourite play ground. Running in the open paddy fields where golden seed-pods swaying in the mild gust of breeze would indicate its time of harvest; boarding the back of buffaloes and splashing muddy water all over was our diurnal, when one day a buffalo sprung up and nearly ditched Sanjoo di and Pravin mama. I still remember Rikesh da with his newly made catapult aiming the innocent sparrows, when I would assist him by providing pebbles for his weapon only of fear that he would thrash me, otherwise I was more into handling a non-violent front. Ramu Baje’s rebuke after finding us getting into the fields trampling the new sprouts still tingles my ears, how Ramu Baje dug the potatoes for us and we baked it in a hearth along with tiny rice-grains and enjoyed the childish bash. Oh! Ramu Baje is also too old now to look after the fields. Jageshor’s Baje grudging at having found one of his fishes missing, which Rikesh Da had stolen quietly and later I was accused of having it done. Alas! Jageshwor Baje is no more. I recollect the times when we used to rest behind the dense bamboo thicket (famous ‘baas ghari’) where I had shared my first puff of cigarette with Robin and wander into the fields, where our footmarks have left an indelible imprint on the surface of memory. Uppa and I one day accidently set fire on our storehouse when we were imitating to smoke with a jute straw and I finally took the charge of it only on Ganga Aunt’s sweet cajoling and how grandma had defended me off the situation else I would have been beaten out of life. I remember how grandma used to take my support whenever I made a mistake; afterall I was her dearest one. It was one day when Rikesh Da was digging a space on the ground with a spade and accidently the spade took its way to my feet leaving me seriously injured, I just made a lame-excuse of a buffalo having stepped on my feet only to avoid Rikesh da’s thrashings later. I hadn’t disclosed the secret for long until few years before when I happened to talk to grandma about the scar on my feet. After two months of our restless actions, our vacation would be over. The time of returning back to our schools after vacation would be the bitterest part of my life. I used to go and hide in the fields just to avoid my journey but I never succeeded. My grandma’s eyes watered with love hugging me tight and my eyes full of tears hating to leave her, when our guardians would be pulling me along. I miss all those days…

And today also, when I get blown by the wind of nostalgia, I turn the album of my memories and bookmark the pictures of those days when life was such a fun. And nowadays when I play FarmVille in Facebook, the picture of our farm-house shines in my mind, a perfect village-life of my imagination.

Some Poetries-I

------------------------------------------------------
Tattered and battered

Lies the soul amidst

Marshy highlands

With palm wide-open showing

The life-line so long.

------------------------------------------------------

The dusty eyes wandering around

Sticks on a clean heart

And tomorrow,

The dusty heart reads

Pain in those clean eyes.

------------------------------------------------------

Life is very short

Whisphered that old tree standing

Aimlessly for thousands of years

One day, it fell down

Really, life's too short

Like my unfurnished dreams.

------------------------------------------------------

They said they'd protect us

And they really protected us.

They said they'd give us shelter

And they really gave us shelter.

Merely, protection from happiness

And a shelter of misery.

------------------------------------------------------

Demise of a History

It was a gloomy day but not Sunday. I was paralysed in my hospital bed. I didn’t know whether it was the pain of my fractures or of my instinct predicting even worse of matters. My great grandma passed early in the morning leaving behind a history that will be recollected for the rest of my life.

I was brought up in her shadow. She used to wake up in the middle of the night just to find whether I was hungry or not and used to serve me with ghee, beaten rice and sugar. I used to accompany her to the rice-mill just to get a packet of biscuits and a big lump of molasses. I used to follow her to the land revenue office just to find a tea-shop selling fried papads on the way. Once I got drowned in our pond, where jute was harvested and since that day during rainy seasons, she used to tie my leg to a stave on a bed-side incase I might follow her to the fields and get drowned again. She was an ocean of love and I too loved her very much and still love her and will always do. There were many times I committed serious mistakes but she was always there ready to argue on my behalf. Last time when I visited her, her poor eyesight mistook me as Rikesh da and the warmth of her weak, wrinkled palms fondly caressing my cheeks couldn’t stop tears in my eyes. She had gone too feeble!

The news of her demise reached my ears very late, after six-seven months and credit goes to Buwa for whispering with mom in Newari but clearly mentioning about her death otherwise everyone was planning to conceal it for more sometime. The news left me dumb-founded; I again almost took the same condition as of when I had been admitted to the hospital for the first time after my accident. Everything has now come to normal but the vacant space created by her absence is beyond words. I still can’t believe that the next time I visit our farm house, I won’t be seeing her. She won’t be there to greet me with her unrestricted love. Fortunately, I was the last one to meet her among her descendants. Few days after meeting her, I met with the accident and few days after my accident, she passed away.

It’s been a year after that and this is a special tribute to one of the most influential icon of my life, a history of our lineage. May your soul rest in peace ma!

A Dream That Could Come True

                A place full of love and solace, a heaven  adequately woven with warmth and tenderness, a life devoid of strife and a 'better earth'  with dearth of exploitations and discriminations .... I landed a miracle, a strange place where solitude had its own hustles and bustles of ownness. Repugnant to this gloomy ditch of glitches, beyond the hazards of an offensive life, aloof  of gregariousity and its unwanted impacts, I tacked a beautiful world of sound human values and thoughts, where color of fortunes painted a life, lost somewhere, ...it was better to be lost than never to be.

My legs traversed the bewilderment of the place ... using my bird-like autonomy and self-dignity. The heart-alluring geography could make anyone dive in its ocean of contentment and drink its fluid of beauty and absorb the warmth of its existence. Big rocky mountains and at the same time, flat terrrains seemed to forecast a big political contradiction within it, green vegetations, tall trees, fragrant flowers and indistinct murmur of waterfalls made that place resemble a heavenly garden ... a brilliant specimen of nature.

One of those God's abode, like those sacred places told by my Grandma in her stories during my lullaby days ... it was a part of heaven dropped in. I went for reconcilement, curtailment of time was racing against my aspirations. A man wasn't there, he was a society; I wasn't there, we were; with regards to one another's feeling, leading one another's labor of warm affection, adorning the tunes of justice and equality, the eyes of aheading childrens, youths and oldies were glowing brightly with a beam of self-glory. However the weather was, change of season couldn't wash the warmth of peoples, a thousand years past existence of cordiality.

The angelic abode was charming, giving delicacy of equal opportunities for no barrier of races existed there, no castles of castes figured there, no one was so superior for anyone to feel inferior, no one was so dignified to be placed at the shrine of luxury or so small to be left working at the mine of destitution. An epitome of Buddha seemed to end the tyranny of thousands of despotic Ashoka, smiling the air of quietude. There was an educative punishment system against prejudice, on the side of justice and people banished away from the materialistic world and rashed by the communal inferiority could even forget their sentiments of depression, whim of failure and march ahead with a belief of hope, trust for bravery and desire for boldness, inevitably  giving invitation on its tranquil dais.

A colorful butterfly tempting a child, I was lured by the waves of beauty; spreading the feather by a dancing peacock, I stretched my wings of sovereignity and tarnished my dirt with the serene bleaches of  "a never-ending joy". Feeling started boiling inside me, a reason was absent to pour it. I forwarded with a notion of development, scrutinizing its every nooks and corners to reveal the secret realisation of its subsistence ... in a Holmeish act. As a result, I got justice/equality, levelled opportunities in its progress, engraved with diversities of life, that place was a beaten track of inspiration to the human-beings to walk along the path of progress. Those milieu, nature and societies turned to be immortal in my conscience.

I was brainstormed and overwhelmed with the whimiscal notion of making our world the world I've been seeing since a couple of hours. Could we change our land this way? Had we been a part of this society? A revolutionary social change was required and no sooner was I remembering the sensitive period of struggle-trial, a road heading destination where history had no credits to complain for, I was prickled from back. I turned and it was my mom, "Get up, how long do you sleep?" I was mute, all those glimpses were a dream. I was opened to my reality, preserved those scenic ideas, made my heart strong, lifted my courage .... a dream that could come true, ... the rays of sun were peeping me from the window pane, I went out in quest of light.

Life from a top angle

Human beings have become wild/wild, who prefer to live in barbarism

Spatters the arrogance of one's victory in the misery of others

Considers one's success in the unhappiness of others

Hurling ember in the garden, bask themselves and warm their bodies.

Is human below or above civilization?

Is he near or too far from intimacy?

Can't be distinguished and thus gets roasted in a cinder

Human beings get targetted to the muzzle of cannons

Hands are chained, but invisible

Legs are fettered, but invisible

Mouth is stitched, but still invisible

Can't be seen but can only be undergone/covered.

Human beings have become wild/ wild, without shape/without scene

Flowers are wringed before they can bloom

Flowers blooming are trampled and made shrunken

Blossomed flowers are thrown in a trash can

Wasting even the seedlings-

In the presumption of establishing another society

Destroying even the seedlings-

In the presumption of making the society developed

Our present society is thus living.

A bullet doesn't distinguish a man and an animal

Makes a single graveyard and never do they separate again

The battle of pride and selfishness –

Is forbidden to be belched out by the pen of literature!

Is forbidden to be broomed by the brush of an artist!!

The tint of life has faded

The colourful rainbow is obliged to emancipate its existence

No sooner a dream has bloomed within it

Restricted it is to ask for a healthy, beautiful and secured life.

Let this life be coloured by the ink of pen

Let the real eyes be opened for our duties and responsibilities

If it is written without confining boundaries/ without any motive

Then where is the blind elephant to walk over?

Can't say- may be on our own fate.

Beware! Let the life be like the world we dream of living,

Like a mighty image where our belief and determination could bloom

Our endeavour, your endeavour, endeavour of all of us.

Together

Together we go
Into the battlefield of life
Where weapons of hatred
Cut like sharpened knife.

Together we graze
In the meadow of survival
Where grasses of existence
Sprout with many ups and downs.

Together we move
In the forest of struggle
Where beasts of endurance
Roar like thunderstorm.

Together we strive
In the ocean of reminiscence
Where waves of memory
Splash like tidal current.

Together we thrust
In the dungeon of betrayal
Where darkness of solitude
Reigns like a no-moon day.

Together we spread out
In the garden of love
Where flowers of affection
Bloom like youthful lass.

Together we reach
The vine of destiny
Where the fruits of success
Are ripened like early harvest.

In this battle of struggle
In this journey to success
In this moment of love
In this attempt of making life
Have we really been together?

My Beloved

When I meddle up with things, looking uncertain
When misery attacks like a gang of hooligans
When life is shattered in crumbling pieces
Then those profound eyes come and say,
‘I am with you.’
Oh! How strikingly they stare at me!!

When I am lost within the void of nothingness
When I lose hope to win the war against my sufferings
When fate outshines my existence
Then that enigmatic lip seems to say,
‘I will rescue you.’
Oh! How beautifully they move for me!!

When I am happy with a trifling matter
When I want the world to know of my deeds
When destiny brightens up my ecstasy
Then those anxious ears tend to hear
‘This is for you.’
Oh! How mysteriously they capture my whim!!

When I am in the dark of my mood, gloomy
When things don’t go the way I want it to
When sadness reigns brutally over my fate
Then that delicate nose smells my affliction
‘Everything will go alright.’
Oh! How curiously it sniffs off my emotions!!

When I am happy with what I am
When things don’t come in big packages
When satisfaction overshadows every desire
Then the warmth of that skin makes me feel
‘This is what you are for.’
Oh! How sensational is its clasping my heart!!

With hands stretched, ready to hold me
With feets beside, ready to walk with me
With silence approbation, embraces my existence
My being of real.