Hope for Dope

These hopes and fears suck.

Life—hold on. Life in this world is exactly like that.

Like a rotten egg you're still trying to fry.

Hope of love,

and fear of not receiving love.

(Which is basically every night after 10 PM.)

Hope of smile,

and fear of tears.

(And snot. Let's not forget snot.)

Hope of success,

and fear of failure.

(And the relatives who will say "I told you so.")

Hope of meetings,

and fear of not meeting.

(And the awkward silence when you do meet.)

Hope of good life,

and fear of grim life.

(Grim life: also known as Monday morning.)

Hope of living,

and fear of death.

(Death: the ultimate deadline you can't extend.)

Hope and fear—

that is life.

Plus constipation. And overpriced vegetables.

Pulled down to the grave.

And hold on: life in this world is exactly like that.

People say: Hope.

They say: You will realize and reach for your dreams.

The colour of life is hope.

Happiness will come to you.

Think of tomorrow filled with joy.

Yeah. And my uncle's fart smells like roses.

But I always fear from hope.

Because after a long wait, if

Failure is a dreadful colour and a hindrance—

(And failure's colour is brown, like the shit it is)—

it brings bitterness and pain. Can't escape.

Losing the strength of hope.

And then you're just sitting on the toilet of life,

empty-handed, empty-hearted,

wondering who the hell invented hope in the first place.

So here I am: hoping not to fear, fearing not to hope,&nbsp and somehow managing to do both badly. Life—hold on. Life in this world is exactly, ridiculously like that.

OK Seems to be Nothing Okay

When I was in tenth standard, we had a teacher who was… okay.

Not great. Not terrible. Just... Ok. So naturally, we called him ‘Sir Ok.’

But here’s the twist—nothing seemed to be okay with that ‘Ok’ teacher. His lectures were like plain toast: edible, but you’d never write home about them.

One day, he decided to push his lesson (a rare event we secretly wished for, because his lackluster teaching made watching paint dry feel like an action movie). Don’t mind me, Ok—I think it’s perfectly okay to write what is true. So there he stood, ready to narrate his epic journey from Phuntsholing to Samdrupjongkha—a glorious 10-hour bus ride through what I can only assume was the land of backaches and existential despair.

“Ok,” he began, clearing his throat like a man about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “Let me tell you about a very tiring bus journey. Ok?”

“Ok sir, ok,” we chorused, like a cult of nodding donkeys.

We seemed to accept everything he said. His first word was Ok, his last word was Ok, and somewhere in between, a story tried to escape but failed. It was the most grammatically correct coma we’d ever witnessed.

“Ok, half of my journey, I had to stand and hold onto the bus because there was no vacant seat. It was hard, exhausting journey. Ok.”

Wait. That’s it?

No dramatic music? No close-up of sweat dripping down his forehead? No mention of the passenger who brought live chickens or the tire that burst dramatically in the dark?

Before we were even ready for Ok’s story—poof—it ended.

We blinked. That was the literary equivalent of a sneeze that never comes.

“Ok then, what happen?” some brave voices shot up from the back, hoping for a sequel.

“Ok, then I reached Samdrupjongkha and enjoyed the new place and prepared for the next journey. Is that ok?”

Is that ok? Sir, nothing about this is ok.

Where’s the drama? The breakdown? The chai at a roadside shop with a mysterious stain on the cup? The philosophical realization that life is a journey, not a destination? No. Just Ok.

Honestly, Ok was nothing okay.

He was always busying—preparing for the next journey, daring to dread fatigue like a superhero without a cape. He was our humblest and briefest teacher. A man of few words, and those few words were all Ok.

If brevity is the soul of wit, then Sir Ok was a comedic genius by accident.

Now, many times in my own life, I have taken journeys just like Ok.

Sometimes I stand the whole way, legs aching, back screaming, soul negotiating with gravity. What Ok sir suffered was okay to him—maybe he had iron joints and a spirit of meditation.

But to me? Nothing seemed okay.

By the time I reached my destination, I had zero vigor to see new places like Ok. I wouldn’t go sightseeing. I wouldn’t “enjoy the new place.”

I would find the nearest horizontal surface—a bed, a bench, a carpet, a pile of laundry—and collapse like a sad potato. No dreams of the next journey. No preparation for another trip. Just sleep. Deep, forgiving, dreamless sleep.

So here’s to you, Sir Ok.

You taught us that not every story needs a climax.

That a 10-hour bus ride can be summarized in three sentences.

And that sometimes, the most honest word in the English language is… Ok.

Ok?

Ok.

The Roots of a Seed

When you see a flower in full bloom, you admire its beauty—sure, fine, good for the flower—but you also think of its seed and its root. If the roots are strong, the fruits will be plentiful. And if the roots are weak? Then you've got a sad little plant that pisses itself at the first sign of wind. From the tiniest seed can sprout the largest plant, as it spreads its roots slowly and firmly. This seed can be sown anywhere and still take root. Drawing what it needs from fertile ground, it will eventually blossom. Or get eaten by a goat. Life's a gamble.

Similarly, people dig for the root. If one's forebears were prosperous, the root is already there, and it will provide. That's the common notion—until the seed gets blown away by the first fart of fate. But that notion is mistaken. Deeply. Like a shovel hitting a rock.

One thing is certain these days: a flower can bloom anywhere, but it needs nurturing. And by nurturing, I mean hard work. Sweat. The kind that drips into your eyes and makes you question every life choice. Hard work is the key to making your flower finally blossom. Yet some people put in effort in vain because they fail to consider the social order and their surroundings. 

Ironically, the root is hard work itself. But hard work without purpose is baseless—like a broomstick without a broom. And purpose without hard work is useless. 

Your root is your dream  and dream is your money

Disclaimer:

Every word in this writing genuinely reflects the personal expression and experiences of my life—mostly mine, sometimes my imagination's, occasionally my neighbour's cow’s. By no means does it reflect any person whatsoever, living or dead. If you think it's about you, it's not. Calm down. I would be grateful if reproducing or storing any part of my writing—in any form, for any reason, in any universe—requires prior permission from the author. I extremely regret the errors. Grammar, spelling, logic, whatever. I hope the reader will rather appreciate and enjoy the feelings of varied intensity instead of sending me angry emails. Requests, comments, and criticism regarding articles are welcome. Threats, not so much. But I'll take those too. I'm desperate for attention.

The ugly Foundling

He was born three years before me. I can still feel the guilty pangs when my family and relatives were around him. He was my big brother, Legpa. This was rather ironical: though I was the young­est in the family, all the care and concern due to me were all showered on him.

My brothers were handsome with moon-shaped face and well-finished nose. My sisters and I were fair with soft skin and straight hair. But Legpa, as eve­rybody started to call him was very different. He was outsized, dark, had a long nose, with tiny eyes below a protruding brow and I would be most ashamed to be found in the company of my dis­tinctly unattractive brother.

He was just plain ugly, and I would think, should have been excluded from our family.

On his birthday once, I cruelly commented, “You look like an Atsara,” which annoyed my Mom to no end. She held him closer to her bosom to protect and console him. She later told me that I should not say such things because Legpa was my elder brother. But instead of apologizing, I said on  his face, “I hate and despise you!”

I dashed from the room angry and jealous; I felt that my mother loved only him.

Legpa was not simply ugly, he was dimwitted too. He giggled foolishly but always seemed at ease with what he was. He didn’t anguish over the things he couldn’t do. He walked in a shambling gait and his form was devoid of any athleticism whatsoever.

When he was eleven years old, Mom insisted that he go to school. He was duly admitted, two years ju­nior to me, because of his mentally challenged state. I resented having Legpa at my school and pitilessly stayed apart from him. Even if he begged to carry my pack-lunch, I’d refuse. Whenever he’d come running towards me with his ugly laughing face, I would scoot just to be out of his sight. He never showed hurt with my goings-on but would instead forgive me.

Legpa had the character we never had. He’d get ex­cited with anything that came his way. He would wash our clothes, help mom in the kitchen and clean the house. And when we’d make fun of his appear­ance and call him, ‘Atasara’, he would smile, while we would roll on the lawn, holding our belly, laughing and teasing.

He always wanted to be with us, but my mates and I would run away, teasing him and shouting his nick­name. I never loved him the way a sister should love her big brother but hated him. Instead, he loved me.

With the passage of time, we grew up. All of us got married and left our parents. We were so busy with our own families, that we didn’t have enough time to be with our parents. Legpa was the only one with them, preparing their food, attending to them when they were sick and rendering all possible love.

I once went to meet my parents. Only then did the reality of life dawned on me that the ugliest things in life could be the best. Legpa, whom I thought the ugliest creature alive, was the pride and joy of my parents’ dotage. We were never ever able to serve them like Legpa did. He was their best kid.

*Ataara-clown like

*Legpa- pet name meaning ‘good’

The above story was published on 8/4/2006 in Kuensel (National Newspaper) Bhutan and awarded the best story. I wrote this story in 1999, when I just completed my 10^th standard. Of course, the story was modified later.

I Cry Because I Know an Answer

Why gaze in every direction?

Searching for the vision, my eyes-

a mirage of illusion fades away,

and darkness folds from the emptiness.

Why listen earnestly into the silence?
 Searching for familiar sounds to comfort my ears,
when the noises prevent the hearing,

and painful voices is all I can hear within me.

Why smell out for the familiar perfume?

Hoping for the fragrant life, my nose-

when the smells bring me pieces of memories,

 Leaving me hurt.

Why stretch out earnestly for the touch, my hands?
Needing the feel of a familiar and helping hands,

when all I have is my own cold stretched hands-
 None embrace me.

My heart cries quietly in loneliness.
It yearns to find warmth and happiness.
It asks many questions.

But these answers are all that i get.

That is the answer.

The above poem was written in Bangalore, 7-1-2012 speaks about the senses. The poem discovers how every functional sense betrays, deceives and desolates from ones own body.

Gains of Going Odd

When I was a child,
my parents said, "Don't play with this and that."
I played.
(Obviously. I also ate mud. No regrets.)

When I was a school kid,
the teachers said, "Work hard."
I listened not.
(I was busy counting ceiling fans.)

Now I am married.
She said, "Learn from others' husbands."
I closed my eyes.
(They buy diamonds. I buy onions. Same thing?)

When I have a child,
he will say, "Let me do this and that."
And I will let him!
(Then blame his mother. Classic.)

                                             

 Because

everyone taught me a lesson or two:

Playing taught me to learn
(like how to hide broken toys under the bed).

Laziness taught me to work hard
(for exactly three minutes, then tea break).

Comparison taught me who I am
(the guy whose neighbor's grass is suspiciously greener).

So here's the truth, absurd but true:
Better to do wrong than have nothing to do.
I let lessons pass like a slow-moving train,
then stood in the rain and forgot them again.

Rights to Write

In ancient times, writers were revered as great creators, philosophers, and the very constitution of society. Figures like Aristotle, Plato, and Homer weren't merely celebrated—they were glorified. People kissed their feet. Probably. They shaped civilizations through the power of the written word. Also through slavery and questionable hygiene, but let's focus on the writing.

For a long time, art and literary works were regarded as unique creations of singular genius. People actually took literature seriously. Imagine that. Writers like Shakespeare, Milton, Hardy, Wordsworth, Keats, Dickens, and the Brontë sisters embedded deep meaning into their dramas, novels, and poetry. Their works dominated society and guided moral and intellectual life. People argued about Hamlet's sanity, not about who had more facrbook followers.

But we now live in a different era—the postmodern age. Also known as the "look-at-me" age. Today, every Tom, Dick, and Harry—or every Sonam, Tashi, and Pema—calls themselves a writer. You farted into a notes app? Congratulations, you're an author. With the rise of computers, mass media, and rapid technological advancement, television and digital screens have come to dominate society like a rash on a baby's bottom. People no longer believe that a work of art or literature carries a single, fixed meaning. Instead, they prefer to derive their own subjective interpretations. It is an age where everybody writes, but nobody truly reads.

Interactive media and the internet have democratized knowledge—yes—but also diluted it. Like cheap whiskey. Copying and preserving art through digital means has made the artist less of an authority and more of a ghost. A fart in the wind. The easier it becomes to share, the harder it becomes to be valued.

The reading habit is dying, suffocated by modern amenities. Smothered by movies, strangled by Facebook , choked by YouTube shorts. It seems there is no future for the writer. Our youth are carried away by the mouse, robotics, trends, phoning phones, dinky-hinky and kinky-pinky lives, nets and notifications—anything but an "inky-bingo" life of pen and paper. They'd rather watch a cat fall off a table than read a single page of Tolstoy. Meanwhile, adults are occupied with minting monies, gambling and wagering, whoring for pourboire (that's tips or bribes, for the uninitiated). Everyone's busy bending over for a quick buck. In such an environment, where is the scope for a writer to be appreciated? Nowhere. Not even in the toilet.

I wish—and I say this selflessly, though my ego is screaming—that many writers would write, many promoters would promote, and many readers would read. I wish for the world to be conquered by words once again. I wish for people to put down their phones and pick up a good book. But the painful truth is that readers have now conquered words. Words no longer carry meaning for them. Words are just sounds. And if words lose their meaning, then writers, inevitably, have a bleak future. A future of shouting into the void while the void scrolls past. A future of writing beautiful sentences that nobody will finish. A future of being that sad uncle in the corner with a pen and no audience.

So here we are. Writing. For ourselves. For the ghost of Homer. And maybe—just maybe—for one or two souls who still read past the first paragraph.

The Death of the Writer and the Death of the Reader

Life is…

Mixing and matching—

like cheap instant noodles.

Twisting and turning—

like a fart in a sleeping bag.

Praying and hoping—

to gods who probably muted this chat.

Dreaming and considering—

mostly considering a nap instead.

Never knowing, yet always knowing.

(Shut up, brain.)

Wanting to, yet not wanting to.

(Make up your mind, you coward.)

Mixing my heart—

sounds messy. Like spilled curry.

Matching my soul to others—

bad fit. Wrong size. No returns.

Twisting fate with the flick of time—

fate doesn't flick back, the bastard.

Turning my life over—

like a soggy roti. Same shit, other side.

Hoping that it would end—

the drama, the wait, the gas.

Praying that bad things never happen—

ha. Ha ha. Good one.

Thinking it was beginning—

classic rookie mistake.

Wishing for good things—

cute. Adorable. Delusional.

Dreaming of its coming—

wake up, you've drooled on yourself.

Considering letting it steal within—

like a thief with bad timing and worse breath.

Never knowing if it's true—

spoil alert: you never will.

Always knowing that it's there—

like a hemorrhoid. Uncomfortable but present.

Wanting to live in the light—

sunlight? lamplight? phone screen at 3 AM?

Not wanting the darkness to come—

too late. It's already here. It brought snacks.

The love of another—

sounds exhausting, honestly.

The dreams of someone close—

probably about running from a giant spoon.

Remembering what we used to do—

can it come back if we pray so?

No.

Praying doesn't work.

I've tried.

Now pass the whiskey.

Note:

This piece is inspired by those who puddle and pucker life—you know, the ones who make every small thing into a emotional crisis. You puddle in self-pity, you pucker in fear, and somehow life still happens without asking your permission. This one's for you, you beautiful disasters.