When I Leave and Go

Last night I heard a strange sound in the backyard. Soon dogs assuming sentry began to bark. I turned the lights off and plunged to my welcoming, snug bed. I was frozen in fear. My mane stood upright as though the latest hair-styling gel in the town had its nauseating effect on them and gooseflesh pricked on my skin everywhere. Looking warily for some possible means to calm myself, I began to work my rosary which I always carry along. Just then, the sound ceased, much to my relief. I was all smiles thereafter. On hingsight, I realized how even a brief tensed moment such as this could ridicule a man's equanimity. I then pondered on, with my half-parted lips and a tinge of fear tingling me, what helluva things gonna happen to me when I leave this world and go.

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Sun Behind the Clouds

WHEN the sun is behind the clouds,

You shudder at the appalling pall of grumpy clouds;

You wail inconsolably in wilderness

If the sun should be this grave, callous and weak-willed.

You curse the sun and swear never to turn to its light

But all the while, the sun rests behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You befriend strangest elements

Overwhelmed with oblivion of the sun.

And the sun is reduced only to a mysterious legend, a distant decayed memory.

Then proudly snuffing the flame of erstwhile passion

You sing with pomp and set the sun on pyre;

You deem yourself a martyr and all your imposed ill-belief of the virtuous sun, a pride-filled martyrdom.

But all the while, the sun squats behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You stonily cut asunder the bond with Him

In a sheer denial that the clouds will ever shrink and recede;

You never believed in the sun and in His utmost scorching orb of passion…

Raise your brow and behold the sky once awhile—

The clouds would have parted in guilt

Then never veil your face in shame and snivel your remorse in sorrowful songs…

And never let your heart burn in pain.

If the sun’s heat is unendurably hot,

Let it burn your heart but in love…

As the sun behind the clouds who always burned for you

Sun behind the Clouds

WHEN the sun is behind the clouds,

You shudder at the appalling pall of grumpy clouds;

You wail inconsolably in wilderness

If the sun should be this grave, callous and weak-willed.

You curse the sun and swear never to turn to its light

But all the while, the sun rests behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You befriend strangest elements

Overwhelmed with oblivion of the sun.

And the sun is reduced only to a mysterious legend, a distant decayed memory.

Then proudly snuffing the flame of erstwhile passion

You sing with pomp and set the sun on pyre;

You deem yourself a martyr and all your imposed ill-belief of the virtuous sun, a pride-filled martyrdom.

But all the while, the sun squats behind the clouds.

When the sun is behind the clouds

You stonily cut asunder the bond with Him

In a sheer denial that the clouds will ever shrink and recede;

You never believed in the sun and in His utmost scorching orb of passion…

Raise your brow and behold the sky once awhile—

The clouds would have parted in guilt

Then never veil your face in shame and snivel your remorse in sorrowful songs…

And never let your heart burn in pain.

If the sun’s heat is unendurably hot,

Let it burn your heart but in love…

As the sun behind the clouds who always burned for you

Mid-Summer's Reverie

AS I got out for work one morning, I felt a touch of fresh summery zephyr gently fanning on my face. The earth was coloured in a natural hue; the lush, luxuriant green vegetation bore unfailing witness to it. A pungent smell of dampness wafted past and a light drizzle rendered the dale a disarmingly dampened look. Women with swarthy skin, armed with an arsenal of spades, scythes and sickles decked those fervid fields in a magnificent mosaic, while taut-muscled men wrought behind the yokes. Children were hard-pressed at play—it was time for paper-boats and not a least tinge of inclination to forgo that moment was apparent on their faces, which were mostly donned in carefree smiles.  Even the birds sang their best summer songs while the boughs they perched on played music in the background with the platter of rain and rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, I spotted a scarecrow. It was in rags with sunken eyes, but it had its arms wide open and ready for a quick bear hug. I was wondering if it hadn't been hard for it keeping itself still and still doing its job—to scare crows and aught at all!

Just then, my eyes began to play with me. Possibly like a psychedelic effect, I saw it transform into a lovely lass. I could barely help falling for her with—
Her effulgent eyes embellished in mascara,
Her silky raven tresses cascading loose,
Her majestic mien wrought in rouge,
Her succulent lips done in affluent peach,
Her manicured fingers conspicuously reposing on the lap,
Her svelte body adorned in vogue…
I wondered if she wasn’t someone from Cannes, up for the next edition’s a million-dollar coverpage close-up in a leading fashion mag. She was truly irresistible and the look she wore drew me closer to her, quite inadvertently. With every new step I advanced towards her, my body began to shudder. It was a sweet strange feeling. And by the time I was only an inch or two away from her, I could scarcely lift my brows and look into her eyes. Her look was sharp and disconcerting. Before I could do aught silly, a beep in my cellular phone broke the spell. I was standing right before the scarecrow in rags.

Eventually, I realized that it must have kept its arms open perhaps it felt neglected and lonely. Or perhaps, its open arms were its dying attempt to convey its woes of loneliness and muffled whispers of wanting love. And I was utterly overjoyed that I could at least decode the stuck-in-the-solitude scarecrow’s bottled-up emotions even though I half decided to take it as my La belle Dame Sans Merci and then, forget it all.

Your supposed Man

WAS there ever a man

Born of ordinary union

But with honest eyes

That saw an angel in you

With a gentle heart

That pounded restlessly

Every time your name

Was heard

The heart that could feel

Your shy whispers

That of love and passion

You convey through the breeze

Had such a man ever walked

Over this earth and heaven

You yearned to see him

Come and lock you in embrace

Who should come by day

With the rising sun

And by night

With the shooting stars

Who should show his love

For you more than

The tongues and pens do

Like mysteries being revealed

Who takes on life

With ease and gentleness

And stands next to you

Through the darkest nights

And your deepest fears

He should ward off

With love that lasts

Little lot more than forever

Should he be your man

Who is flawless in design

And fits your fancy

Well, he’s not yet born…

I Will Help You Heal

Your eyes are like asterisks

And they own a secret I know;

The secret of those missing bricks

          On the walls of your heart—

The reason why you now have snow

          And yet refuse to sit by hearth.

I will burn like a smoldering ember

Until warmth in you is restored;

I will rearrange the stars of your number

          So that you seek new pavement.

I will have it floored

          With plenteous love, smiles and merriment. 

Evanescence to Eternity

BLOW me a kiss over this fall breeze

And let the remnants of summer freeze

Then I shall sing one sylvan song

And take you out of this humdrum throng

To the place where you actually belong

Still smiling, still sanguine and still strong

Shower me hugs along these fawn fall leaves

And let the winter roll in great heaves

Then I shall have you huddled up in my arms

To let the butterflies flutter in swarms

As free as they are in yonder farms

With charisma, with chivalry and with charms

Let’s be greeted by a heavenly host,

Let’s our worldly names be left and lost

Far behind the undulating hills of obscurity

As we glide past evanescence to eternity

To make one with both ancestry and posterity

Evanescence to eternity!!!

Beggar's Way

I walk adrift this long and lonely lane,

Wishing to repose somewhere

For I’m way-worn and starving

But I don’t have pence to my name;

And I’m so tired that I want myself slain.

All I’m become is a dust-laden wayfarer,

Plodding through pastoral hamlets begging;

I know not what pride is, what shame.

But I’m a son of Gods I believe—

I receive so they can give.

I’ll plant a kiss on the welkin

For showering me with myriad kin

Of this they’re oblivious though

But someday they’ll know, I know.

Am I in Love?

I sat by the casement yester-dusk

Sipping a warm frothy coffee,

I saw a fine bird in freedom flight

Proudly singing her best spring song

Amidst the darkling sky;

I sipped more and clung on to the flask

And the fleeting beauty thereof did win me a trophy—

I was colonized by love unbound that bright night.

Verily my eyes shifted from the humdrum throng;

I saw things many would only wonder why.

Not a question even I could ask.

Perhaps, I knew how things were meant to be—

The bird indeed had her pride

Of that I was certain, I couldn’t be wrong;

What? Am I in love at all? Sigh!!!

I Dare Not COMPARE

I shall not compare your golden cascading tresses

     With the meandering mountain brooks

          Nor with fruit-laden boughs in woods;

I shall not compare your piercing elegant eyes

     With peerless pearls in seas

 Nor with snow-white doves fluttering in even breeze;

I shall not compare your impeccably fair visage

     With the magnificent moon

Nor with soothing showers of July and June;

I shall not compare your seraphic smiles

     With coalesced petals into a chaste corolla

Nor with the finest wine relished at the royal gala;

I shall not compare your soft scarlet lips in sheen

     With the sparkling shooting stars

Nor with the flight and might of Avatars;

I shall not compare your tender bosoms

     With silky spring buds

Nor with the bubbly soft soapsuds;

I shall not compare the smooth velvety touch of your hands

     With splendid snow flakes

Nor with the blue pacific lakes;

I shall not compare your solicitous warmth

     With hearths in every hamlet

Nor with men who warm coy mistresses by their sylvan serenade;

I shall not compare you

     With the heavenly beings

Nor with the daughters of imperial kings;

You glide beyond the dale of comparison

     And thus, truly beyond compare

I dare not compare!

Mindless Thoughts

Prelude

“A walk by dusk

With the moon hanging overhead

And her constant entourage(stars) like a halo;

And a halt by tavern,

Wanting to drink a little,

Wanting to word my wine-wisdom,

Wanting to shed some tears,

Wanting to fall but in love...

And wanting to rise again

Sober, stronger and more sanguine

Each time I fall...”

Main Text

I want to stare at the stars

So that I get gooseflesh

All over me

Seeing them twinkle

A little lot more

Than the other night...

I want to sit by the tavern

So that I can quaff a pint

And in my drunken stupor

All I’d utter is:

I am drunk in sobriety

Like I am not when I am...

I want to saunter by dusk

Through a mosaic of meadows

With the moon

In the sky overhead

Alone and yet in company

Of the myriad creatures around

I want to write a word

Of speech, of silence

That cannot be worded

And I will call it a poem

Even when poetry

It scarcely sounds...

I want to shed some tears

So that my eyes are cleansed

Of the dirt begotten hitherto

Because they say,

“Eyes awash with tears

See life better!”

I want to fall in love someday

So that I’d scrape my knees

And break my limbs...

Like I fell when I was a toddler

And every time I fall
I shall rise twice as much... 

How I Donned this Garb with a Label-TEACHER

(To all my teachers, teacher friends, teachers in the becoming and to all my students)

In layman’s parlance, there aren’t many differences between a student’s life and a teacher’s. The only difference lies in displacement and the rest is virtually all the same, at least in my case. In retrospection, I used to sit snugly on my chair, half in a trancelike state and the other, dreaming big time while my teachers bore all the pain in the world to stand and speak almost all day. And now that I am a teacher too, instead of sitting, I stand and speak while it is my students who have taken my much-coveted place—they snugly sit on their benches, half in a trancelike state and the other, dreaming big time while I bear all the pain in the world to stand and speak almost all day. That’s the only difference, no less and no more—as I said, in layman’s parlance.

However, on taking a cursory tour back to my school days, it is obvious to me that I was oblivious of what it was like to be a teacher then. A life of a teacher at the chalkface was, more or less, a mystery to me. Mystery because they were a bunch of people who I couldn’t understand beyond their stereotyped position-TEACHER!

And as the fate would have it, the mystery that hinged at the back of my mind unveiled on its own. Post-high school, I was indiscriminately craning for everything that came my way like every anxious post-high school kid. I was a bit worried then for I did not fare satisfactorily in the board exams as I had a plan to re-do the exams the following year. Perhaps I was obsessively ambitious then but I knew the marks I would obtain that year wouldn’t be good enough to align me with my dreams. Moreover, I was a Commerce graduate and it would not be lucrative for me if I look for jobs or trainings alike right after Grade XII. Quite surprisingly, as the things slipped out of my clumsy hands, I left everything to destiny. And destiny had it that I should take up teaching and that I humbly accepted. This prompted me to set off for my apprenticeship to one of the isolated pockets. The rich and rapturous experiences thereof still flicker across the corridors of my mind today and I know they would remain immaculately etched in the annals of my fond memories until I breathe my last. Those eight months of refuge I sought in teaching were the best time of my life. Why do I say those were my best time? It is because those were my most terrible moments. You see, I was raw akin to a chick that had just popped out of its shell and seeing the world for the first time. And to aggravate the matter, I was to fend for myself.

It isn’t a mere account of how I survived. Rather, it is about the metamorphosis that I came over in myself. Those eight months persuaded me that I could never be a teacher in all certitude. Even if I became one, I would be a bad teacher. And becoming a bad teacher is no-man’s-land. Myriads of thoughts bottlenecked the traffic in my mind as to why I had opted for it at the first place. I even felt that it had been so foolish of me trying to fit in the Cinderella’s shoes like her two desperate sisters. I almost came to a point of giving it up for good. But a part of me wanted to hold on even when it meant clutching at straws. And once my training began in the Samtse College of Education, I came to know my eight months of struggle was already training per se. Those hard times I had undergone were a mere catalyst so much needed for transformation, for metamorphosis. Unconsciously or subconsciously, I had already fallen for this profession from day one of my apprenticeship. It is a beautiful field and those who drank from its pool could only behold it. It is a mystery otherwise to the mere onlookers. The vacuum between where my apprenticeship ended and where my training began from was the moment of soul-searching. And then I realized the mystery had been demystified—it was all about a crumb of hope, a grain of inspiration and a desire to share our dreams and dances, our aspirations and anticipations, our hopes and happiness... with the young minds. That was it and I knew I was indeed in the right discipline. And the training that ensued was only a formality and to perfect some of the best tricks of this trade.

I realized only then that destiny best ushers us to our niche when the dreams callously close all their steel doors and render us clueless. It was by default that I am here and it is my sheer decision to stay here until I grow old enough to retire. Now that I am a teacher myself, it’s easier and apt for me to empathize with all my teachers’ every action and reaction they had with everything I, as a student did back then. They had done their jobs well because they reached me here, safe and sound. Now it’s my time—I will keep the streak going!!! Thanks to their boundless wisdom and indefatigable inspiration that I am so proud to be one like them today.

HAPPY TEACHERS’ DAY!!!

(Written on last Trs.' day celebration.)

To My Callous Mistress

BEAR in your mind O’ dear

Those little words beaded with love

Of this heart of mine rapture

And muffled whispers of my soul too

Words are not mere words

They are the psalms cast on you

Not shrouded in spears nor swords

Save sweets and sugar

Orb of your beauty galore

That even poets would be baffled

And bring moon and stars to sore

While soft-winged cherubs croon in choir

The peasants gather with scythes and spades

And dance and uncork wine bottles

And honour you raw until dusky even shade

When lords and ladies join in too

The tramps and shepherds place their flutes

Over their bosoms and play no more

Nor spendthrift sons work their lutes

As they long to hear your soft utterance

But if only with them I could commune

That you like no men who like you

To love you is to build castles in dune

Aught but not a heart you possess

Beauty without heart is misery

If only you could cultivate love

You would glow in all pageantry

Of this earth and heaven

Mid-Summer’s Reverie

As I got out for work one morning, I felt a touch of fresh summery zephyr gently fanning on my face. The earth was coloured in a natural hue; the lush, luxuriant green vegetation bore unfailing witness to it. A pungent smell of dampness wafted past and a light drizzle rendered the dale a disarmingly dampened look. Women with swarthy skin, armed with an arsenal of spades, scythes and sickles decked those fervid fields in a magnificent mosaic, while taut-muscled men wrought behind the yokes. Children were hard-pressed at play—it was time for paper-boats and not a least tinge of inclination to forgo that moment was apparent on their faces, which were mostly garlanded in carefree smiles.  Even the birds sang their best summer songs while the boughs they perched on played music in the background with the patter of rain and rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, I spotted a scarecrow. It was in rags with sunken eyes, but it had its arms wide open and ready for a quick bear hug. I was wondering if it hadn’t been hard for it keeping itself still and still doing its job—to scare crows and aught at all!

Just then, my eyes began to play with me. Possibly like a psychedelic effect, I saw it transform into a lovely lass. I could barely help falling for her with—

Her effulgent eyes embellished in mascara,

Her silky raven tresses cascading loose,

Her majestic mien wrought in rouge,

Her succulent lips done in affluent peach,

Her manicured fingers conspicuously reposing on the lap,

Her svelte body adorned in vogue…

I wondered if she wasn’t someone from Cannes, up for the next edition’s a million-dollar coverpage close-up in a leading fashion mag. She was truly irresistible and the look she wore drew me closer to her, quite inadvertently. With every new step I advanced towards her, my body began to shudder. It was a sweet strange feeling. And by the time I was only an inch or two away from her, I could scarcely lift my brows and look into her eyes. Her look was sharp and disconcerting. Before I could do aught silly, a beep in my cellular phone broke the spell. I was standing right before the scarecrow in rags.

Eventually, I realized that it must have kept its arms open perhaps it felt neglected and lonely. Or perhaps, its open arms were its dying attempt to convey its woes of loneliness and muffled whispers of wanting love. And I was utterly overjoyed that I could at least decode the stuck-in-the-solitude scarecrow’s bottled-up emotions even though I half decided to take it as my La belle Dame Sans Merci and then, forget it all.

         

Silent Sobs

THE pungent smell of your perfume wafts

Subtly by the tear-decked corridors of my mind,

Bringing forth, as it often does, a deluge of memories…

And it’s only in remembering you

That smiles playfully see-saw on my sunken face

Your artfully made up face emits sparks

That lights the darkest of my nights;

You came like a snowfall

And went away like angry blizzards…

And I haven’t seen light since.

Darkness smiled at me and I found

A worthy companion in it,

That I shudder at the name of light…

It is in the darkness I see your eyes glint

And the darkness makes you all too brighter

But you are the brightest in my memories

Where you are the soul inhabitant...

I am surrounded by many a friend

And as they hoot with strings of laughter

I can barely fake a smile;

Through my tear-tanned eyes

They come to know why I keep to myself

And they know they can’t blame me

For my indifference!!!

Each day I wake up early to catch the sunrise

But it denies to greet me with its warm kiss

Its blatant denial slowly corrodes my heart

With sorrows I haven’t known before

For it was in the warmth of morn sun

I saw my love grow...

And each night I stay awake waiting

To steal a glimpse of a kalapinka

Singing with all its heart and soul,

But it’s been quite a while

That I haven’t heard its soul-soothing singings

Perhaps I will never hear its songs again.

As the chaos whirling within has broken

This heart of mine into disarray

The songs only irk me...

But it was kalapinka’s song where I could

Unlink myself from the world’s woes

And I turned to its songs for solace

And it’s in its songs I could aptly converse

My sighs of wanting love

And whispers of burning desire...

And if we ever meet again

Let me never see you in tears

I may not be able to hold mine own,

Let alone wiping yours;

Let me never feel that you are troubled

I may not be able to ease your troubles;

And let me never find you faking smiles

I may not be able to take them in...

I shall shift my path if I see you first

Before I get a different mind

And away I will go before you can see me,

But if it’s you who sees me first

Then I have to be awfully sorry again...