Hope for Dope

These hopes and fears succumb

Life. Hold on, life in this world is like that.

Hope of love

And fear of not receiving love.

Hope of smile

And fear of tears.

Hope of success

And fear of failures.

Hope of meetings

And fear of not meeting.

Hope of good life

And fear of grim life.

Hope of living

And fear of death.

Hope and fear

Is the life

And pulled down to the grave

And hold on, life in this world is like that.

People say, Hope.

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.

But I always fear from hope

After a long wait, if
Failure is a dreadful color and hindrance,

Brings bitterness and pain, cannot escape

Losing the strength of hope.

And Remember, "Success Through Failure."

OK Seems to be Nothing Okay

 When I was in tenth standard, we had an ‘OK’ teacher. We called him ‘Sir Ok.’ But nothing seemed to be okay with that ‘Ok’ teacher. One day, he pushed his lesson (which we always wished from his lackluster teaching! Don’t mind Ok, I think it’s okay to write what is true) and told us about his journey from Phuntsholing to Samdrupjongkha; about 10 hours bus ride.

“Ok, let me tell about a very tiring bus journey. Ok?”

“Ok sir, ok,” we noised.

We seemed to be accepting everything. The first word would be Ok and it would end with Ok.

“Ok, half of my journey, I have to stand and hold to the bus as there was no vacant seat. It was hard, exhausting journey. Ok.” (Now what is okay with this ok)?

Before we were ready for Ok’s story, it ended.

“Ok then, what happen?” some voices shot up.

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

Ok was nothing okay; always busying, preparing for the next journey, daring to dread fatigue?

He was our humblest and briefest Ok teacher.

Now, many times, I have taken journeys liken Ok, sometimes entire journey standing like Ok. What Ok sir suffered was okay to him. But to me, nothing seemed okay, by the time I had reached the destination; I would have no vigor to see places like Ok. I would sleep, not wishing to try another journey (Dream).

The Roots of a Seed

When you see the blossoming flower, you think of its beauty, you think of its seed, you think about the root. If the roots are strong, the fruits are plentiful and vice versa. From the tiniest of a seed, sprout the biggest plant spreading its roots slow and firmly. This seed can be sown anywhere and become a root. Taking the necessities around from the fertile ground, it will blossom.

Similarly, people dig out the root. If the fore parents were booming, the root is there. The root will take care of it. It’s the notion, when the seed is blown away. The mistaken notion.

One thing is sure these days, flower can bloom anywhere, you need to nurture well…hard work is required. Hard work is the key to blossom your flower at last. Some people put effort in vain, not keeping the social order and surroundings in the mind. Perspiration then is in vain, if nothing achieves at the end.

The root ironically is hard work, but hard work without aim is baseless. And aim without hard work is useless.

Your root is your dream  and dream is your money

Disclaimer

Every word in the writing genuinely reflects the personal expression and experiences of my life, and by any means does not reflect any person whatsoever to anyone living or dead. I would be grateful if reproducing or storing in any form or part of my writing, in need, must have the prior permission from the author. I extremely regret the errors and I hope that the reader would rather appreciate and enjoy the feelings of varied intensity. I request readers to make any kind of query, comment and criticism regarding articles. 

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 at every direction?

Searching for the vision, my eyes,

A mirage of illusion fades away

And the darkness folds from the emptiness.

Why listen earnestly in 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 cold stretched hands,
 None embraces 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 says about 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 this and that.'

But I played.

When I was a school kid,

The teachers said, 'Work hard.'

And I listened not.

Now i am married;

She said, 'Learn from others’ husbands.'

But I closed my eyes.

When I have a child,

He said, 'Let me do this and that.'

And I let him!

                                             

 Because

everyone taught me a lesson or two;

Playing taught me to learn,

Laziness taught me to work hard,

Comparison taught me to realize who I am.

And I let them pass

Than nothing at all!

 It truly is true; nothing in life is failure. Ones philosophy of life is another niggling to it. Everything will be good if let naturally of its own. There is one side in life; your side, which will be always be right side.

Rights to Write

Writers in ancient times were known as the great creator (makers), philosophers, and constituters of society. Aristotle, Plato, Homer - to name a few-were glorified.

The Death of the Writer and the Death of the Reader

Art and literary works were considered as unique creations of the artists but for long time. People were serious about the purpose of producing art and literary works. Shakespeare, Milton, Hardy, Wordsworth, Keats, Dickens, Brontes, etc, bore a deep meaning. Dramas, novels, poetry, and books predominated society.

Now, in this era called the postmodernist, every Tom, Dick, and Harry or every Sonam, Tashi, and Pema is a writer. With the onset of computers, media and advancements in technology, television and computers are dominating society. People no longer believe in art and literary works bearing one unique meaning; they would rather believe in deriving their own meanings from pieces of art and literature. It is the time when everybody writes, but nobody reads. Interactive media and the Internet led to the distribution of knowledge.  Copying and preservation of art and literary works by the means of digital media is the means of an artist becoming less popular.

A dying reading habit because of modern amenities looks like there is no future for a writer. Our youth are carried away by ‘mouse,’ ‘robotics,’  ‘trends,’ ‘phoning phone,’  ‘dinky-hinky,’ ‘kinky-pinky’ life, nets, etc, not ‘inky-bingo’ life. And men are occupied by ‘minting monies,’ ‘gambling-wagering,’ ‘whoring-pourboire.’ Where is the scope of the writer to be appreciated in this environment?

I wish and is selflessly dedicate many writers to write, promoters to promote, readers to read, and to conquer by words. But the truth is readers have conquered words and words have no meaning to them. Writers, therefore, have a bleak future.