What is Religion?

The world of illusion—
undefined, I provoke delusion.
Some say it is the fount of aggressiveness,
without description in its compressiveness.

Apostasy, too, a nihilism's pinnacle in crime,
shall never trek to nirvana.
Alienation of suffering we want—
elicit is the land of joy and manna.

It stipulates mothers of samsaric desire.
As a detector, won't lavishing a mare.
Religion, by whom it detests,
deluges to the labyrinth of samsara fastest.

Dreamingly dwelling in a mystery region,
the dedicators' sin is a ransom by religion.
Altruism it adores, that bears mercies;
a practitioner shall acquire many fancies.

Religion counsels us to pray,
with magnitude to discard being samsara's prey.
It adversely advocates being parsimonious—
in addition, a hotch-potch of economic learning.

Our sublime mind never realizes,
when passionately, life gets summarized.
After religion's profound knowledge, life gets discouraged.
Thus, for the cessation, scourge.

Reincarnation of the Lama—the true racy—
we worldly lovers, never understanding, seem dicy.
Some carp at religion with horror,
forlorn that the path to heaven becomes an error.

Delve into the indebted to the virtuous—
are they the impetus, the instruments to victory?
Virtue is a next life's summons.
Jekyll and Hyde are miracle judges in common.

Why are some reborn into the family of a tycoon,
others in hut houses, or homeless by the typhoon?
Past phenomena give the present fruition—
never regained by fortune.

True action and commitment reap in bliss—
peace, pleasure, and joy in a bliss that we shall kiss.



Note: This poem (an original version, not edited) was written by my brother Karma Dendup, 17 years ago. I didn't understand it when he read this piece to me often. But it inspired me a lot. Thank you, bro. What I am now is part of you.

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. Yes, Mysore. 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. (Sure.) 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. Really.

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. Fun.

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. What is this, a spiritual dating app?

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.