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 the deprivation?

Where is the care without the carelessness?

Where is the love without the hate?

Where is the success without the malfunction?

Where is the life without the death?

Where is the truth without the lie?

Where is the god without the devil?

Where is the ‘you’ without ‘I’?

Where is the belief without the unbelief?

Where is the heaven without the evil?

Where is the stress without the relief?

Where is the hope without the fear?

Where is the tree without the shoot?

Where is the month without the year?

Where is the 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?

For the questions are like oceans

And these are the captions

And these are subjects of books;

Where? What? Why? Who? How… fill oceans?

Where men ponder to it hooks.

The above nonsense and humorous poem is something like ‘where is the choice in the jail.’  As we know, lock up is mean to break out but life has no choice to be with this.  It’s in the heart, in the soul where lies the reasons of all-the sense.

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.