Love Hurts

Falling in love hurts.
Secretly, it kills you—
unable to say,
unable to disclose
just how much you like her.

And it kills you more
when you have another,
and you love them both so much.

What is wrong with loving both?
Ashamed of one or the other,
you live the lousiest life.



You simply play around—
who is in love's bound?
You simply don't count
where love's fountain mounts.

So it kills you more,
deep inside the core.
You live the lousiest life,
and it cuts you like a knife.

I am You

I am you.
I am what you are.
I am an army to an army—
which means I have to wake up early.
I am an animal to an animal,
so basically, I'm just another mammal.

I am what you are.
I am the best when you are the best,
and I am the worst when you are worst.
So if you're having a bad day,
guess what? Me too. Thanks a lot.



Such is I.
Me, myself.
You, yourself.
You are what to me?
When you are not me,
I can't stand.
Literally. My knees give up.
I am not what I am.
I am what you are.
I can't be myself—
because you keep borrowing my personality.



Society compressed me like a soda can,
conformed to the values they call "the plan."
I am in the middle of worms
trying to eat—
which is gross, and also defeats
my lunch plans.

I am made up of people.
I am you.
I am a human mortal.
Which means I forget why I walked into a room,
I laugh at my own jokes,
and I blame you for everything.
Because, remember—
I am you.

Many Little Stories in Mysore

A birds-eye view of Mysore

One place to visit once in a lifetime—if you're an ardent follower of Buddhism, that is—is Mysore. The "sore cleanser" of life, they say. It's one of the great centers of religious discourse and higher studies. Naturally, the place is much worshiped and known all over. The golden temple is the main attraction in the locality. Popularly established by the late Penor Rinpoche—the greatest Tibetan saint and lama, no less—the monastery houses hundreds of monks and welcomes thousands of devotees from across the world. The Nyingmapa sect is practiced mostly here, but there are many other monasteries around: Dalai Lama centers, shedras, nunneries—something for every assorted taste.

Three of us stayed there for a night. Our main mission was to see the late kudung (body) of Penor Rinpoche. Not only were we sanctified by the sacred remains, but we also visited many illustrious temples. Our Lopen—who happened to be known to a certain junior Sangay—explained the significant history of everything. And we were impressed. Everything had a story. A small stone on display was said to be so heavy that no one could lift it. There was a grief-stricken, very cross-looking Guru Rinpoche. There was a vivid depiction of hell. And it went on. The only thing people actually seemed to circumambulate was a chorten—a wish-fulfilling chorten. Of course, there was a story behind that too. Visit and find out. It's worth it.

Now, monks are not supposed to eat meat. So it killed me when our guide monk comfortably ordered chicken kebab. I felt a sharp pain in my stomach. Clearly, I was in the wrong place—because I wanted to order chicken myself in front of him. Instead, I ordered mushroom Manchurian. Sangay, the wise one, preferred onion slices over chicken kebab. We told Sangay he should buy kilos of onions from Mysore. True story. With the change of time and place, we like different things. Enlightenment is flexible, apparently.

Then there's Tshering. Tshering is no ordinary guy. He started off as the most "on the go" person, but upon reaching Mysore, he turned into a sleeping machine. Tshering got a kind of sleeping disease. He didn't talk much either—because he had a sore on his tongue. I told him not to kiss too much. Our guide Lopen, ever wise, explained that one gets either impregnated by sleep or freshens one's mind due to the power of religious sanctity. I guess Tshering had been carrying all the religious holiness and sacredness, which made him so tired and sleepy. He slept a full day and a full night. Meanwhile, I was like a rooster, constantly waking him up to go visit monasteries. 

And then there was the group of girls. They had come to see the monks in the monasteries—specifically, the trulkus, I suspect. They were having a very good time with the monks. Ah, trulkus. One monk told me, with complete seriousness, that Mysore is a factory of trulkus. Hundreds of them. Just trulkus. The late Penor Rinpoche, being very compassionate and humane, apparently accepted whoever came to him declaring themselves a tulku. Even if you had walked in and said, "I am a tulku," Rinpoche would have recognized you. That's what some monks told me. "No, I don't want to be one, thanks," I said to them. I've seen too many fake trulkus walking out with unimaginable things: money, women, rape, murder. I told them. A perfect example was what we—and the monks themselves—had just seen in the monastery's own guest house moments earlier. Trulkus were sleeping in the same room where that group of girls was sleeping. Why do women like monks? It really burns my eyes. Seriously.

And Tshering? Every time someone talked about how unfaithful some women can be, Tshering got a headache. And with his headache, he went back to sleep—peacefully, of course. It killed me. But at least someone was getting rest.

English Sounds/Meanings

The cat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the cat."

The hat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the hat."

The bat is on the mat.

But the man on the mat said,

"The mat is on the bat."

I bet these will make me mad

if it was not a dream.

What is the difference in sounds?

What is the difference in meanings?

Here Again

Here again—
born again
to chisel all over again.
To carve,
to shape, to groom,
and to fit into the room
that never asked me to stay.


Born again—
to write and live,
to write the un-written muses,
to embark on a novice voyage
that feels both brave and foolish.
To slice and dice this life
into a new beginning—
or another ending dressed in disguise.


Here I am.
No matter what.
Finding my voice
while losing my certainty.
Affirming my identity
even when I don't recognize it in the mirror.

I'm trying.
I may be the ugliest.
I may be bad.
I may be good on days I forget to be proud.
But I'm here—
stubborn, scarred, and strangely standing.


Here again—
and to hear again.
To be with you
and forever—
if forever exists
outside of fairy tales and fine print.
If not, then in these lines,
preserved like pressed flowers
between pages no one reads
except me
and maybe you.

Rains Washed Away My Happiness

Torn clothes and shabby tresses.
Unpleasant, dry dirt and mud stink over the room.
Oh, his bed—and the dear dust beneath it.
He sleeps on a thin, torn carpet,
his pillow a rag of old clothes.
His Baago hut hurts him.
Is he truly that poor?
Shedding tears has become part of his life—
tears have furrowed deep into his cheeks.



Each day, maize corn and radish.
Radishes have become his life.
Now, can anyone compare to him?
Has anyone ever dwelled like him—
with so many black dots scattered across his life?



Cumulus clouds appeared over the orchard.
Leaves rustled and blew along the ground.
A heavy storm came—
soon, huge rain rained down, and fruits fell.
The door opened and closed on its own.
The rain lashed for two days.
The earth vomited on the third day.

The lamp went out.
Now, only memory remains.
Thoughts revolve without stop.

That was a year ago.
The family was about to eat.
Then, gone—the affections of wife and children.
Gone—the riches.
Gone—the wonderful times.
All buried to death. In a jiffy.

Families, things, animals, a homely home—
swept away and thrown by the landslide.

The man cried.
He still cries.
Hollow.

"Sometimes rain can be bad," he says.

This lonely desolation, this distorted assimilation—
it is hard to feel. And he breaks down.

Is he now living life in the dark,
waiting for death?


Things gone. Gone forever.
So he went near his small field—
the field left behind by that misfortune.
His hands gripped a sped.
He began to work in the rain
and often sleeps in the potato field,
covering himself with another sack.

Such a dreadful life has overtaken him.



Now birds sing in the sky.
He feels sort of sad, but glad as well.
The sun has gone down already.
Will it rise tomorrow?

He is living in the midst—
to survive or not to see the sun?
To strive more,
to swim and swing against nature?

The hope of a brilliant tomorrow
carries him through another rough day.
He believes in his age-old faith,
and that is where he lays his life.

Note; Man creates and builds; nature destroys everything. The ultimate power is nature—wealth, health, and happiness. Nature provides, and nature also robs everything you have.

Teachers’ Day: From a Teacher’s Perspective

Coinciding with Teachers' Day today, I would like to write something about teaching and what it means to me. The best way I have learned to be a teacher is by looking at how others teach me—which is sometimes terrifying, sometimes inspiring, and occasionally a great lesson in what not to do. Teachers are lifelong learners who relish the chance to grow and evolve. Moreover, the innocent enthusiasm of young students keeps teachers young, as they remind you to smile through the chaos, the marking, and the endless meetings about meetings.

In many ways, learning and teaching are tied to each other. Teaching means helping people learn something. Teaching is learning, enriching, and growing. Teaching is caring, motivating, and inspiring. Teaching is collaborating, equalizing, energizing, and exhilarating. Teaching is also exhausting, confusing, and occasionally makes you want to hide in the supply closet. But we push through.

I gain fondness by seeing a person who learns, changes, and gains understanding about the meanings of life and the world they live in—and having the ability to be unselfish and worthy contributors to society. In other words, I help them grow into what they want to be.

I have encountered many best students in my life who have in turn shaped my life better. They are Monu Tamang, Mahindra, Yangchen, Sonam3s (yes, with a 3—there are many Sonams), Susan, Karma, to name a few. The rest are still a work in progress. So am I.

A novice child comes into class not able to read. When he leaves in December, he will have become independent, understood the way of things, and become a potential and creative solver. I have to say, seeing the progression of a child and making a difference in a child's life from February to December is invigorating. It's also exhausting, but in a good way—like running a marathon while being asked "Why?" every thirty seconds. That's what makes teaching mean the most to me.

Teaching to me means caring, nurturing, and developing minds and talents. It is about passion as much as it is about reason. It's about not only motivating students to learn but teaching them how to learn—and doing so in a manner that is relevant, meaningful, and memorable. It is about listening, questioning, being responsive, and pushing students to excel. At the same time, it's about being human, respecting others, and being professional at all times.

Teaching is more than just a job. It's a calling. It's an ever-surprising mix of grueling hard work and ecstatic successes, both big and small. To constantly improve teaching capabilities and to be there for the student, and to help with any problems they have, in or out of the class, to teach and delight—that is my motto. Also, to never lose my sense of humor. That one is survival.

There are as many different learning styles as there are ways to solve problems. The ability to look at life in a different way and to explain a topic in a different way is one approach. Not everyone gets a subject as taught by every teacher. Images, pictures, trips, and the occasional bribe of candy are some ways.

As a teacher, I think we need to have the ability to change, but it is also important to be able to keep hold of the good things. Some teachers may fear change, as change is uncertain, but it is not necessary for teachers to change everything they currently do in the classroom—just the things that aren't working. Like yelling. Or falling asleep during silent reading. Change is a slow and difficult process, so it should be taken step by step. Preferably with students.

As teachers, we should always remember the 'Wise Old Owl':

The wise old owl lived in an oak

The more he saw, the less he spoke

The less he spoke, the more he heard

Why can't we all be like that bird?

Because, dear owl, we have thirty students asking questions at once, a principal with a clipboard, and a bell that rings every forty minutes. But we try.

The work of the teacher never ends. Its continuous ripple effects are always there, somewhere, somehow—like a bad cold or a good joke. We teachers must remember that if a student fails, then: the teacher has failed; the examination system has failed; the evaluation system has failed; and, by and large, the education system as a whole has failed. Happy Teachers' Day!