There is A Day

There is a day for everyone.
The sun will shine for me someday, like it has shone for you.
Happiness will come to me someday, like it came to you.
Success will come to me someday, like you have won.
Success will bear fruit for me someday, like it bore fruit in you.

Everything will be different—
flowers will bloom, and clouds will disperse.
Everything will be different,
because you never saw the same things as I see.
You were different.
Don't be different.

There is a day for everyone.
There is a day
when you will cry for me, like I cried for you.
There is a day
when you will miss me, like I missed you.
There is a day
when you will need me, like I needed you.
There is a day
when you will love me, like I loved you.

Everything will be different—
love will affect, pains will hint, and hearts will melt.
Everything will be different,
because you never saw the same things as I see.
You were different.
Please, don't be different.

I tell you this:
every time I was there around you,
doing everything for your affection,
the same is so rare from you.
A heart is meant for one
but greeted with rejection.

I thought of us together,
but now I have given up.
I cried my tears; no one has won.
Aches fade, pains do too.
But of all, I cannot think of losing you.
All I see is you and me forever.
I will hold on, and still, I will try.

Teacher is not a Cheater

I have been a teacher. And I love to be one. (But as of now, I have been doing other works more than teaching. Shh. Don't tell anyone.) I have been learning to teach. I have been showing the world—whether the world asked for it or not. I have been creating stories, poems, and minds. Some of these minds are sharper than others. Some are still in the "sharpening" phase. I have been acting to be ethical, innovative, and usable. Usable, like a good Swiss knife. Not pretty, but gets the job done. I have been listening, reading, writing, and speaking. Sometimes all at once. That's called multitasking. Other people call it a breakdown. I have been making rules for the class, games, co-curricular activities, and I have been a part of them—unwillingly, but present. I have been a father. I have been a mother. I have been a servant. And for all of these, I have sometimes become a scapegoat. The kind that gets blamed for everything and then sacrificed at the altar of the annual report.

Teaching is good. I mean it. The act of teaching—when a child's eyes light up with understanding—is beautiful. But our system? Our system is no good at all. Not even a little. We don't have support as such. That's the technical term: as such. There is no support from parents, the government, our management, or society. Everyone wants educated children. Nobody wants to help educate them. Last time, after my studies, the Ministry of Education and Human Resource Officers brutally separated my family and me and placed me in a different place. "Brutally" is not an exaggeration. I heard similar stories from others too. Apparently, the Ministry has a secret award for the farthest placement from one's spouse. I think I won silver. I don't know what good there is to motivate teachers. A medal? A certificate? A "thank you" that doesn't come with a salary hike? I'm still waiting.

I laughed when other office agencies tell me they are busy. I saw them. Busying the whole day on Facebooking, chatting, gaming, and making josh (whatever that means). I cannot kill the time if I were one of them. I would die of boredom before lunch. But no. That's why teachers like me are overburdened with responsibilities. We are multi-tasked. We should be a housemaster, warden, matron, sports instructor, organizer, dancer, singer, kicker, baller, and occasional therapist. We look after co-curricular activities besides teaching. We have no time for cheating. We barely have time to pee. But guess what? We are paid very low. And we are only paid for teaching. Not for dancing. Not for parenting other people's children. Not for fixing the broken chair. Just teaching. Meanwhile, there is an indicated expectation—oh yes, indicated—of improving the quality of teaching and education. What else could we expect from overworked, burned-out teachers with minimal wages and no proper working space? Miracles? On the other hand, we have been bogged down with obligations like a donkey carrying a mountain. The Ministry of Education must initiate some careful interventions before it's too late to retain our teachers. Because we are not donkeys. We are just tired. .  Teachers live in pathetic conditions. I'm not being dramatic. I'm being accurate. They don't have quarters like other departments. Teachers where I am working live in huts. Yes, huts. If you look at the working rooms, tables, chairs, etc., they are more miserable than those of many low-grade servants. At least servants get a roof that doesn't leak. Teachers don't have computers in front of them to make notes. Some of us use chalk. Some use hope. Some use both and cry a little. Teachers are deprived of many facilities that office workers enjoy a great deal—like sitting, air conditioning, and not having to break up fights during recess. .

Less innovative and less creative heads of the school judge gurujis on the level of outbound activities—like their lip services, kitchen gardening, and how many plants they can grow in recycled buckets. Not teaching as such. Teaching is secondary. What matters is whether you can smile while planting cabbages. There are loud-mouth non-performers who get the highest grade. They talk well. They promise well. They deliver... well, nothing. And yet, they rise. Meanwhile, the good, born, and earnest teachers get demotivated. At least. Often, they get much less than that—like respect, recognition, or a simple "good job." So here I am. Still teaching. Still loving it. Still wondering why.

A Beauty that Costs Her Life

Did you see an ugly beautiful? Did you see a beautiful ugly? A beautiful face with the ugliest character. There is something in this: those who are ugly have a beautiful heart and are virtuous, and those who have beautyhave substandard character. Did you notice that? I have seen it in this nothing-to-do place—a very tiny, tipsy kind of place in Yebilaptsa. I have heard people saying so often that there is something missing in Khengpas, and this is really true because I have seen it. People usually work less here, and they eat more here; in fact, they drink more. They think only about now and forget completely about the future's prospects. They are living and dying at the same time. They don't have life as such. They don't understand life, they don't understand love, they don't understand feelings, they don't understand silences, they don't understand stances. They live a jaunty, perky kind of life.

You cannot have a beautiful woman—a woman who is virtuous, intelligent, and makes an ideal partner in life. If you have one, you have an angel.

And most girls and women in this place are truly disgusting. They don't have anything—let me be frank—women don't have anything as such in them. They don't have "woman" in them. They don't have the brains to compete. They don't have the energy to move forward. They don't have anything inside them because their character is loose. So loose that it may ruin them. They don't have integrity. Nothing. I would like to shout at them, especially at that red girl. They only have faces—physicalities. That too is truly fabricated beauty. They paint their faces like objects, and when they do, they objectify themselves. And this is what the women of Khengpas are: they have nothing, but they act as if they have everything.

In my life, I didn't believe any ears. I am a good listener but a very bad keeper. So I have never thought that I have my own. I didn't own anything as such. Only did I realize that I own someone when I got married. I have my precious wife and son now. I do believe in them. Anyway, this is another side of the story.

Now let me tell you about that Khengpa girl who has a beautiful face, one that anyone would fall for at first sight, but truly, she does have repulsive character—I should say. This is a small place, but many fishy things go on almost daily. There would be a boy asking for a girl's cell number in a bar shop. There would be cat-and-rat chases. There would be a boy showing off all the loftiness of his life. This is his valiance. Now, what is her valiance? She doesn't deserve this page or even a word if I were to describe her character. She stinks on my page. But if I were to describe her beauty, the pages would flower and smell. What is this beauty? John Keats says, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know." But there is nothing true in her beauty. She has worn a red V-neck sweater. She has a plump, smiley, attractive, mesmerizing face. But this red girl acts like a bitch—a hungry bitch. She drinks peg after peg of Special Quarial and throws ruses at her new boyfriend. Gross. She holds onto someone's shoulder, and she literally embraces all. What a pity. She cries like a wounded bitch without any reason. She follows the boys and goes in search of her new boyfriend. She dares to shout her boyfriend's name in the night. She dares to run plag-plag-plag like a highwayman in the night.

One night, she fought with her boyfriend. It was just outside my living room. They quarreled for some time and threw some punches. I pressed my face against the window glass, and all that I saw was a red-shirted girl lying on the ground, throwing her feet and arms angrily toward the sky as she shouted, "FUCK YOU." And I felt she had fucked her own life herself. She is mannerless, characterless, and good for nothing. She can only live by selling her beauty—a beauty that costs so much pain to be borne by herself. A beauty that blemishes her life.

It’s the Blood Not Poem

Note: We are human and we make mistakes, but sometimes we nibble at the tiny ones and ignore the big things that surround us. These smallest faults can cost us everything—quarrels, divorces, suicides. This poem speaks of suffering between a husband and wife who misunderstand each other. The misunderstanding is born from not knowing who they truly are. Sharing and trust matter if we are to avoid a broken heart. This poem reflects what I feel and what I have seen over the fences.



My tears roll onto this page
because I have no choice.
A sorrow overflows unceasingly—
so painful to bear.
My life is thwarted,
lacerated,
torn apart.

I am living only to die.
I cannot change.
Only you can.
The dark lines will remain—
this faded excitement,
this dimmed view,
this dullness.
I cannot see.
Why can't I?
What have I done?
Was I so unlike myself?

Can you not cry
seeing me fall?
Have I wronged you?
My many wrongs
have been shattered by your one wrong.
You separated me.
This one is brutal—
it has destroyed me.

Now I drink my own tears,
drinking to make them stop,
but they keep flowing,
carving rivers down my face.
I am fickle, lost, nervous,
lifeless, oblivious,
making enemies of my own feelings.
I blame this. I curse it.
Is this my destiny?
Why am I here?
Why did I come?
I don't know anymore.
I am pointless now,
wandering a bewildered street,
drifting toward dreary, empty places.

Without your love,
I wander like a ghost,
kicking bricks,
punching crumbling walls.
I don't feel the pain.
I tear my skin red.
I run back and forth,
screaming inside—
what place is this?

People pass by.
I drift through the crowds.
No one glances at me.
No one notices what is next to them.
I am alone in the masses.
I feel this because you made me alone.

My feet carry on,
and the aches carry on.
Days scratch me raw.
I try to focus, but it's useless.
This world of charms and joys—
it belongs to others, not to me.
I am far from the magic of living,
stuck in a corner of misery.

Depression hovers over me like fog,
thick with reasons why
we should never have been separated.
What will happen to our children?
What will happen to the trust of our relatives?
To you and me—
our meetings, our memories,
our attachments, our affections—
every detail will slowly be killed.

Now those relationships crush me.
I was so attached.
I call out, howling,
throwing myself on the floor.
Love is killing me.
My skull is breaking.
Why is life cracking like this?
Why was life made this way?
I didn't create this situation.
No one planned this.
It is a movie,
and it has reached its cruel climax—
to lay myself down,
buried,
dying like a wounded cat,
freeing myself from everyone's care and burden.

Because I have always been a poor man.
I was never meant to be well-off.
I was never suited to be a husband or a father.
I was never made to love.

Let me lie down now.
A broken man has no heart left to give.
Let no one disturb this ruined corpse.
What sin did I commit?
The offense of loving?
The sin of giving care that was never returned?
The fault of fathering children?
The failure of keeping silent?

Everything happens in life—
but not in love!

I am dead from my sins.
These sins drive me mad.
Let me be punished if I have wronged you.
But don't you see—these are our sins?
Don't you understand—this is our life?

I listen to how others live.
They speak of interference, obstacles, rebukes—
all parts of life.
Each person has limited love,
further bound by their children.
Yet they stay together.
They know each other.

You said, and I said, that we have
sharing, understanding—that we can grow again.
But slowly, you must know me,
and I must know you.
Who am I?
Who are you?
Where did we go wrong?

I never truly knew you or myself.
That is where we failed.
A person must be sensible, no matter what.
Sense is a matter of reality.
We cannot live a poetic life—
all people are pulled down to the grave.

Now I have a mind again,
and I feel I cannot go on.
It is unbearable to live without you.
The distance I keep now—
is it the distance of a million years?
The gap between us,
the gap between our children—
is it just a shadow's width?
No. The gap is a mountain of shadow.

As you wished,
as you wanted me to leave—
this distance, this gap,
these spaces and mountains between us—
they are unbearable.

When you spoke those wavering words,
when your father told me to get a divorce,
I did what you wanted.
I asked for what I needed,
but you could not give it.
For the love of you,
I gave everything.

I am a nag. Yes, I nag.
But now, here I am—crying.
I cry.
The songs I hear turn into tears.
The room I live in drowns me.
I am being crushed
between two walls.
I am bleeding.
My blood is nothing but tears.

Our children are crying too.
You may be crying as well.
Our children might be longing for sweets.
What made you cry?

Here I am, sleepless night after night,
tossing and turning,
glimpsing at the memories—
the incidents we created together,
now buried underground.
They rise up vividly on the walls.

You may say, "I am different from others."
We are different.
But we are bound by one thing—
an unbreakable love.

My favorite Buddhist Parables

Many teachings of Buddhism is taught and told in short and delightful parables. They are usually designed to develop the mind and to free it from distortions and so to connect with our spirit.

Many of them are really inspiring and enlightening. It is helpful to the mind to think about them and feel the deeper meaning. Even if it is not possible to grasp them fully, the beauty and simplicity of the message usually get through to us one way or the other.

Some parables are a selection of the ones I found most inspiring and really worth pondering about. Some may be instantly understood, some others need to be thought through and recognized in oneself. We must always keep in mind two crucial principles: the Buddha Mind and serious practice. Without practice, and without the determination to achieve Buddha-hood for the benefit of all sentient beings (Bodhi Mind), parables merely feed the intellect and may become, in the words of D.T. Suzuki, "mere bubbles." 

1.       The Moving Flag

Two Buddhists monks were arguing about a flag flapping in the wind.

"It's the wind that is really moving," stated the first one.

"No, it is the flag that is moving," contended the second.

A third interrupted them. "Neither the flag nor the wind is moving," he said, "It is MIND that is moving."

2.       Goddess of Wealth / Goddess of Poverty

Once a beautiful and well-dressed woman visited a house. The master of the house asked her who she was and she replied that she was the goddess of wealth. The master of the house was delighted and so greeted her with open arms. Soon after another woman appeared who was ugly looking and poorly dressed. The master asked who she was and the woman replied that she was the goddess of poverty. The master was frightened and tried to drive her out of the house, but the woman refused to depart, saying, 'The goddess of wealth is my sister. There is an agreement between us that we are never to live apart; if you chase me out, she is to go with me.' Sure enough, as soon as the ugly woman went out, the other woman disappeared.

Birth goes with death. Fortune goes with misfortune. Bad things follow good things. Men should realize this. Foolish people dread misfortune and strive after good fortune, but those who seek Enlightenment must transcend both of them. (from The Teaching of the Buddha)

3.       A True Buddha

Three monks were drinking tea.

The Buddhist master asked the first monk, “What do you drink with your tea?”

The first monk replied, “I drink suffering, loneliness and make peace and happiness.”

The master nodded and exclaimed, “Oh, you are great, an enlightened one. You go now.”

The same question was asked to the second monk.

And the second monk replied, “I drink Buddha’s teaching, compassion and the Buddha himself with the tea.”

The master now fully satisfied with his explanation said, “You are a truly Buddha, an enlightened one. You too go.”

Then the master asked the third monk, “What do you drink with your tea?”

The third monk replied, “I picked out the fly from the tea cup and drink only tea.”

The master smiled and said, “You are the right person to sit in my place.”

And the master gave his sit to the third monk.

4.       The Buddha

There were two monks.

Younger is sitting in zazen.

Elder inquires, “Why are you sitting in zazen?”

Younger replies, “By sitting in zazen, I hope eventually to become a Buddha.”

Elder picks up a brick and begins rubbing it on a rock.

Younger laughs, “And what are you doing?”

Elder replies, “I am polishing this brick in hopes that eventually it will become a mirror.”

(The advanced story ends here, but for the rest of us it continues.)

Younger asks, “How can polishing a brick make a mirror?”

Elder retorts, “How can sitting in zazen make a Buddha!”

(And, true to the ancient formula, the younger monk instantly became a mirror.)