Animals like Leaves

Below is my favorite song from the Savage Garden, ‘The Animal Song’ from the album ‘Affirmation.’ The song seeks freedom from this intricate world. Playfully I have distorted the song. Though flavor of rhymes, rhythms and meters are lost, still it looks funny to read after reading the original.

Original Song

When superstars and cannonballs are running through your head
the television freak show cops and robbers everywhere
Subway makes me nervous, people pushing me too far
I've got to break away
So take my hand now

Cause I want to live like animals
Careless and free like animals
I want to live
I want to run through the jungle
the wind in my hair and the sand at my feet

I've been having difficulties keeping to myself
Feelings and emotions better left up on the shelf
Animals and children tell the truth, they never lie
Which one is more human
There's a thought, now you decide

Compassion in the jungle
Compassion in your hands
Would you like to make a run for it
Would you like to take my hand

Cause I want to live like animals
Careless and free like animals
I want to live
I want to run through the jungle
the wind in my hair and the sand at my feet

Sometimes this life can get you down
It's so confusing
There's so many rules to follow
And I feel it
'Cause I just run away in my mind

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Distorted Song

When supermalls and cancan dances are drooling in your head,
the telephone is the way of life everywhere—
suborning and making me devious, poppa, fuss me off afar.
I'm wrecking slowly away.
So take me where no hand reaches.

'Cause I want a leaf like by animals—
cushy and free for many centennials.
I want a leaf.
I want to run without a leaf bungle.
The wine with the leaves is the saint to me.


I've been having diathesis keeping to myself.
Seeing and motions buttress me to shave.
Animals and leaves tell me truth—they are my recipe.
Which one is more gourmand?
There's a trough. Now can reside.

Compulsion is the bungle.
Dirty composition is in my heart.
Would you like to make a one for me?
Would you like to try my hand?



'Cause I want a leaf like by animals—
cushy and free for many centennials.
I want a leaf.
I want to run without a leaf bungle.
The wine with the leaves is the saint to me.



Sometimes this life is duress durn.
It's so effusing.
Obsessively rule out.
And I'm fed up with these books—
so run away openly, just what my mind says.

Where is the happiness without the sadness?

Where is the happiness without the sadness?
Where is the sympathy without deprivation?
Where is the care without carelessness?
Where is the love without hate?
Where is success without malfunction?
Where is life without death?

Where is truth without a lie?
Where is god without the devil?
Where is 'you' without an 'I'?
Where is belief without unbelief?
Where is heaven without evil?
Where is stress without relief?

Where is hope without the fear?
Where is the tree without the shoot?
Where is the month without the year?
Where is man without the woman?
Where is the baby without the boot?
Where is the carriage without the cabman?

Where are the answers for all these questions?
The questions are like oceans.
These are the captions,
the subjects of books:
Where? What? Why? Who? How — fill oceans?
Where men ponder hooks.


Note:
The above nonsense and humorous poem is something like: "Where is the choice in the jail?" As we know, a lock-up is meant to be broken out of, but life gives no choice in this. It's in the heart, in the soul, where lie the reasons of all sense.

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 sir

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 thukpa.

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 on the way or the tire that burst dramatically in the morning?

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. 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 sir. 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, 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. 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.