The Karmic String

When the remnants of karmic string had us bound together,
As firmly and neatly as a knot tied together,
Don’t let it get slackened off by any external agents,
Neither let it get entangled in the hands of evil.

Together, let’s be woven into webs of intricate design,
A design that none can possess but all aspires for.
Let’s be sewn into yarn unshakable.
Together, let’s be the entity that fill up the fabric.

Let’s be but together to adorn anyone or everyone,
Let’s be washed, squeezed, dried and hung together,
Let’s be the textile that bestows protection and warmth to many,
Let’s be worn until we are frayed together,
Let’s be used together until the ultimate result is fringes,
Let’s be together the stuff in the waste bins if that’s our ultimate destiny.
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The Stance of Being a Girl

At times, it becomes quite confusing for us to put forth our next step when every move of ours is escorted by the unflinching gaze. It’s not because that we are worth being eyed upon. Nor are we in possession of something extraordinary. But simply because of the lighter complexion, it becomes quite a simple task to direct their stare towards us from the crowd.

So often, we would overhear people muttering, ‘Chinese or Nepalese?’ Or some would simply opt to remark, ‘China or Nepal’. However, to a few elderly members of our neighbor, we made an effort to popularize Bhutan as the country from which are hailing. Only by then, they would add one more to the long lists of countries of the world which they are aware of.

But for many strangers, a simple nod of ours did answer their query. Or sometimes they would be better off with us turning a deaf ear to them. As simple as that, and nothing much of our explanation is required for them. For there are instincts in us that forbid us to go ahead; it’s better not to let the social stigma cling to us.

Why is it that a girl has to hurry towards her respective dwelling when the ushering dusk bids farewell to the radiant daylight? Why does she have to fear to face dusk alone? Why is it that her heart paces at an accelerated rate on her being alone? Why is it a strange thing to spot a girl walking all alone on the street? Is it a thing to be ridiculed so that she turns so easy a thing to be preyed upon?

A plethora of such thoughts creep the sutures of my brain, ringing a consistent nag for a truth to be unfurled. But only an obvious and a single answer to it do spring every time. Indeed, a fact to be comprehended, reminded and borne in every girl’s mind.

If a thing goes wrong, she would be crippled and cringed in the corners of her dwelling for the rest of her life. She would have to dwell in the seclusion of her depressed being, lamenting over her lost dignity and pride.
Now, why can’t a guy or man understand that the girl surpassing them is someone’s loving daughter, a sister to someone alike them, someone’s would-be wife and ultimately a going-to-be mother; nothing different than the one who nurtured them.

If only some instincts like this could dawn on the way in which men think and act; a girl would walk alone like one of them, feel free to traverse any path they seek and secure enough to work towards the progressive development of an individual, family and the society as a whole.

The Path Of Life

Predestined are we to be congregated underneath the azure blue sky,

To put forth but our uncertain steps in pursuit of our lives,

Unaware of the ultimate destiny that our path will lead to,

The miscellaneous paths will have us flung to assorted destiny;

The path trailed may be the mistaken path,

Or else the path worth but not taken.

One may never decide onto the former one,

While the later one will become the path that everyone craves for.

If only one knew what lay in store at the end of the path,

Would one’s consciousness and instincts instigate our move accordingly.

If only one could visualize the golden rays emanating at the end of the path,

Would one gallop with the spurt of enthusiasm crammed in their blood.

Or we would have halted our very next step,

Have we had envisioned the peril that awaits us.

But if in life, we risk nothing,

It holds firm that we will have nothing.

If our feet don’t stumble upon the prickly path,

We wouldn’t reach to reap the treasured gift of triumph.

We lay rather oblivious of our ultimate destiny,

Yet we stroll on the path of our life.

A Walk in a Different Shoe

Kiba, that’s what everyone calls her. It is a summon to which her head averts automatically and her ears spring up in response. An utter contradiction to the literal meaning of her name, her life was a journey on the path of turmoil implacable.

The person who contributed to her paternal genes was the one who had romance with her mom for a brisk span of a night. It was so easy a task for him to walk away then. She neither had a glance nor heard about his whereabouts. Her mother was not in a position to deny her seizure at the door of her grandmother’s slavery either. And so she was left alone to gear about in her life, to face the world throwing the word bastard at her face.

She served well under the post she held. She was fed with instructions innumerable. She was made to do all the household chores, scolded for not being able to keep pace with her works as being instructed. At times, she was told to walk in a way that her pace resembles a spring attached to her shoe soles. A little time lag in her doings will have her squeezed to tears.

The threat to let her go starved to bed and school had her overwhelmed to prioritize household chores. The need to do her homework or the idea to flip a page open never did strike her. Her days at school were fogged by fear and embarrassment that became a daily routine. The frequency and the intensity with which she had to bear the punishments dimmed her enthusiasm to pursue further.

She worked at her grandparent’s house with not even a freedom to fill her belly. She worked for years without even a single penny accumulating in her pocket. All she did was endure the treacherous life. She listened to the incessant words that stung her heart with poison until the level became intolerable.

She even resorted to terminate her being of existence. Many attempts of her in doing so were barred by her sister, the only source of her hope. But there was nothing much her sister could do than to share a few words of positivism blended with sobs. They were distanced by barrier so lofty for her sister was studying abroad.

To her urge to flee to a far flung place, her sister erected a supportive frame, on which she mounted immediately. This was the only solution her sister could assert at the moment. And so she walked the frozen path of her life in search of warmth to bask henceforth. She strolled for days in search of a place that could fit her in, a place that could provide solace to her, and a place where her well being will be taken care of, if the same her bloodlines denied to.

To her delight, she found a place which was comparatively better. Though working in a guest house was not an easy one, she spotted the indigestible words that would have crammed her ear canal missing at her new place. She was cautious and worked hard enough not to let the proprietor discover any faulty operations in her doings.

But no sooner was she plagued by an ailment. The throbbing pain was excruciating to the extent of sending her back home. She had to return at the cost of her being greeted by rage burning in the eyes of her grandmother. An astrologer routed her illness to be the repercussion of wrath expressed by the local deity for abandoning the place at her will, and that no treatment shall ebb her pain.

To her life laced with sorrows and depression; to her grievance unshaken; to her path undulated and frozen; to her agony unleashed; what can we do? Can we at least take a brisk walk in her shoes and convey our benevolent sympathy? Or can we let our eyelids to droop momentarily in mumbling a few prayers for her well being?

The Song of Love

The offering of the song of my love,

Today will I have warbled out before you.

Spare me but a few minutes of yours,

Lend me but your attentive ears,

Listen to it but with utmost zeal.

The hidden treasure of my secret love,

The reflection of my heartfelt intuition,

The repercussion of my innate desire,

Is inevitably rolling off my tongue…

The treasure of my love I will have engraved,

On the pure white paper of your heart,

Before anything untamed stain it.

Let it be your heart’s adornment for a lifetime,

Let it be the supreme invigorator of your heart,

Let it be a part of every rhythm it beat,

And let it be your heart’s accomplice until it ceases to beat.

A Moment With the Helen Cyclone

The fear and the bedlam created by the incessant whooshing sound of the gallant wind have envisioned in us the situation of the sky crumpling upon us. The sound made it vivid the likely infringement of the cyclonic disaster. It replaced our sound sleep with accelerated heart- beats. The wrath of nature encroached our zone with sheer warning, flung open our door violently, ushering millions of dust particles and debris inside.

Plugging in ear phones in anticipation of dissipating the terror did little to ebb the intensity of the sound that our ear drums encountered. The gallant waves roared through the night, and whirred through the day. The anger webbed in its roar was consistent. It didn't let us light even a tinge of hope of it surrendering.

 The magnitude and the ferocity with which it swirled its move kept on surmounting.  And so did the terror in the eyes of the helpless inhabitants. There was nothing we could do than to wait for it to subside. We left it up to god to decide our untamed destiny. We fervently prayed to God that all dwelling in the realm of the cyclonic rage be liberated from fear mounting in them, and that none be engulfed by the yearning mouth of the natural catastrophe.

The night long torment had the hinges of our bathroom door wrecked and blown to a distance. The slender coconut trees had their stature averted to a slanting position. Some of them toppled down in utter despair. The gooseberry trees couldn't resist but endure the loss of their sour juicy berries which found their place embedded amid the mud.

The pseudo-stem of banana plants gave way to a little pressure the Helen cyclone imposed on them. The fleshy and succulent nature of them conferred little resistance against the ghastly blow. The finger bunches swinging down the pseudo-stem succumbed to the ruthless attack. The fingers (technical term for banana fruit) that should have landed up in the market stalls found their place amid the marshy earth beneath.

The Extent of Cyclonic Wrath.

The very moment aftermath the peril, we visited the fields in an attempt to access the damage. It was evident that farmers are going to suffer irrevocable losses. At times, our move was counteracted by the fear of ourselves being examined by doctors rather than us examining the extent of damage. But should we attempt for a halt, the credibility of our profession is going to be at stake. So off we strolled until perspiration became the ultimate end product.

My Plead

 The blazing flame,

I will have ignited,

Only to warm your cold feet,

Even at the cost of I getting scorched.

All I need is  your presence;

To have your fragrance gasped,

To have gazed into your eyes,

To have skimmed the lines framed in your brain.

To savor the reassurance,

From that ravishing face of yours.

To reel over the track of our unwavering love,

To gear towards the destiny led by a common path,

To tread our path woven with unbound love and faith,

To inscribe a memory in the transient moment we dwell.

But  fervently I beseech thee,

With my two hands clinched into one,

‘Never I be included in the list of obliteration from your life

Never and ever let go off me,

For all these can't happen without you,

Not without you in my life'.

Never Let Go Off Me...