A morning like this

The Pine trees wake up from their standing sleep
They take some time
To take their wet blankets off.

Like stray spaghetti on a restaurant floor,
The roads are dotted with earthworms,
Some dead, some waiting to die,
Some will probably make it back to the muddy sides,
Crows sit on cold steel rails,
they have just taken a bath in the morning dew,
They do not care about the plentiful breakfast of
Worms that is spread out in the pavement,
Yet !

Down below,
In the foothills,
Wheat tips grow more golden than gold
Fresher than the news or donuts,
glisten in the yellow morning sun.

As morning dew seeps in through the shoes and the socks, and your toes-
Into your blood stream you understand
The land that is mushy is the most clean,
Shoes that are muddy are the best looking shoes.

Ugly water tanks,
dull as an concrete electric pole dot the fields,
The Earth is carefully carved
for the rain water to flow into these gold beds
And beyond –
I take my smartphone out to take a picture,
but it’s not difficult to see,
Early mornings are like water,
We have associated water with pipes and collection tanks, but they do not really belong there,
Can I fit the crows and the worms
and the wheat and the pine trees
and the mist and the dew,
And the shy gaurishankar gleaming mildly in the north,
And the super confident yellow morning sun inside a frame?

Nowadays,
I think of Dhulikhel
As I walk beside bagmati,
The trees and the crows and the worms are here too,
If you are lucky you can see a few mountain tops too,
But I shall
Neither take a picture
Nor write a poem,
about a morning like this.

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To walk into a bookshop

Wide walls filled with dildos
and flesh lights,
some for fiction, some for fantasy,
some non fiction and some blow up bullshit.
Sometimes,
to walk into a bookshop
is like walking into a sex-shop.

They walk slowly through the shelves
race their racy eyes,
and try to match their fetishes with the covers-
they feel the front and then the back.
Most know –
those that shine above the rest
the chains and whips-
they are expensive,
and like jewelry, they are mostly limited in use.
If you want to play safe,
the classics are usually a good value.
They check the spine, they check the bleed,
check the edges to see if it cuts.
Though they browse
through a lot of books
flip through a lot of pages
they make only a few choices-
the one they will use in leisure,
the one they will use for pleasure,
and the ones, they may eventually share with their loved ones.

They usually present one or two to the cashier,
often in a nonchalant way
but their gut is gnarling like a dog before the bark,
they appear calm
but their legs go cold as if
they are asking someone out.

Sometimes,
to walk into a bookshop
is like walking into a sex-shop.

Oh!
…and like the sex shops,
the cashier wont judge-
may be a little,
but the cashier will understand
sometimes,
we all need to party alone.

Cornflakes

Wake up
Have some cornflakes
Go to the work place
So you can keep buying the cornflakes
Man, is this what it takes
To keep repeating the same takes
Repeating the same route
Baking the same cake?
No icing no sugar
Just a damn dry lake
I would not be wrong to
Call this a mistake
Man, we lost in our own lives
Trying to make sense of all this red tape
Living like livestock
We are living for slaughter
Living to afford college
For us, then our sons and daughters
Living to buy things
Trying to win over the taxes
This city is Never quiet: no lull
the mind never relaxes
I take my life and measure it in baskets
I put the things I consume
Swear it looks like a casket
I could tell it like it is
Man, it’s easy if you a class kid
For Mass kid, there aint much hope
Other than begging and asking
From kulfi suckers
To the lickers of Robin who’s basking
No Messiah here
Why are we masking
The dread of life that we are asking
Flashy clothes to pack our ass in
And toilet paper to keep the ass clean
Put on a little saffron so we can mask sin
Climbing up the ladder put the Task in
make sure your not the one who’s last in
Making life
Faking shit
The cars the booze and not looking shit
Put a gold chain around your neck
The gold pain around your neck
A great Dane with a collar I the great neck
Take a good picture of your life
For zuck’s sake
Get a job that pays you dollars
Be a hustler not a scholar

They want me to be motivated
Like a bird who’s gotta find his nest and
Find a mate to do the nest thing
They say this nestling, is the best thing
You can have a nice life
Get a good life
Find a place to live
Buy some cornflakes
Then go to the work place
So you can keep buying that cornflakes

The woman from Dillibazaar

​She measured the earth in multiples of the distance between her home and the farthest city she has ever been to,Dharan.  She asked me if where I came from was farther than her reference town. She looked at my face as if she could see the dirty ponds and the dusty streets of my home town, I looked back at her trying to find traces of Kathmandu, the city that has spawned her whole ancestry, but all I could find was a small intersection,one among many of intersections of Kathmandu, at most I could see parts of Dillibazaar .

When she smiled to bid me goodbye, her smile didn’t look like Dillibazaar, it looked like Dharan.

I wonder if, when I look into the mirror, I will ever be able to recognize the city I carry in my smile.

The it factor !

He sniffed himself
more often than not

Some times he wondered
if other people smelt it too,

In fancy hallways he felt at home,
Vanilla that rose up from white china cups filled the air,
These cups were full of it as well.
And he would wear all these bright clean clothes,
with saturated colors,
big bold rich names stapled to them.
He would wear these beautiful sparkling things,
that shined more than gold,
glittered more than the March night sky,
His clothes were full of it as well.

His speech was like an assortment of fresh green salad,
his acquired accent like salad dressings, overpaid for, from convenient stores,
These stores were full of it as well.

His walls were decorated with well composed landscape pictures
You could find him somewhere in the frame as well,
tiny and almost invisible, but some how he felt very big about this,
His engineering degree hung by the side,
As if someone had put a reflector in his sockets,
his pride glistening in his eyes,
Even his walls were full of it

He walked down the road with spring in his feet,
His hands in his pocket,
A well measured smile in his face,
Even his walk was full of it.

He sniffed himself more often than not,
He worried if other people smelt it too.

He saw me in the mirror the other day,
He said, “sh…
Don’t you tell,
don’t you tell nobody about it.
I am doing my best to hide it.”

I said- “Don’t worry bro, it’s not just you, everybody is full of shit.”

Recurring martydom

I was killed by the “rising sun”

that promised me

land to yield and a place safe

i was instead given a tongue less mouth

even which i kept

then i was asked for a few years

to make things right

i said”why not”

a few years will pass out

swiftly like a summer night.

 

years later nothing changed

then i was told,

it was all but lies

i do not believe what i hear

but i gotta believe my eyes

there was no tongue in my mouth

no sense in my head

no guarantee i would not be taken a prisoner

while i wake from my bed

i said”ah hell ! this has to change ”

 

and change it did,but i didn’t see

you see,  i was the foundation of what you have with thee

i marched the street like a mad dog

 

i was armed with slogans

while i was facing bullets

my words would pierce hearts

but couldn’t stop them damn bullets

 

in the end i was shot,

in the leg first and when i fell

in my head, bang bang

two shots to make sure.

i wouldn’t rise again

killed like a mad dog.

again and again.

 

duihazar sixtythree ,  dui hazar fourtysix and dui hazar-seven

i am your recurring martyr

i die again and again.

 

-May 17, 2011