For My Dear Friend Yeshi

Nothing worth-hankering than the gone days

Gaiety there even in an argument at thin air—

I remember such happened twice or thrice fair,

But the cemented friendship grew on to bay…

Even now, with this cherishing thought so lively,

I feel we share a great deal each other,

 Even if not privy in mere mundane sense,

As our tie was knotted by the golden thread.

But the partition to the yonder unknown,

The realms we destined to step on,

The play of a chasing curiosity or sense,

Created a frail barrier as it’s in fact.

But the vicissitude has this gift for us,

To cherish on with each funny memory—

The gone ones are golden in true sense,

The dreamy nature soothes, teaches…

The sought struggle now,

The betterment in any,

Can’t mimic the gone ones,

The gold wrapped up in tattered cloth.

In your quirky gesticulations,

In each languid movement,

Your fastidiousness in a piece of narration,

Your smiles,

Your touch of tidiness,

Your way of facing…

I know them so well.

From an alien land

I call thy name within

Coz that I've time now,

But in later turns

Wish they aren't cruel

Letting me blot out those sweet memories

For the menial chore ,

The self-levied burden.

Dear friend!

Do remember me in your prayers!

And take me as ever in your pristine heart!

And I hold on…,

Would never let go

The destined bondage in clear light.

And today, at this moment,

I happened to make out this odd piece,

The popped up thought’s wish

To paint even with an unskilled hand

To leave something for thee, my dear friend!

And feel only from those odd lines,

No place for artistic beauty to be observed.

Just try to trace my feelings!

And I feel and pray ever!

Your true friend Norsang

From Hayange, France on April 4, 2013

Taken by me with my phone camera during one of my initial times here in France

Reflection

It may be common for most hearing the other one inspiring you or expressing his or her own regrets by saying, ‘Why life then if such and such coveted pleasure-spices can’t be tasted? It’s to be brazen enough or diligent enough in pursuing and having the same to quench the burning desire.’

The innocent yet silly heart had the times to take it in overdose, bloated and digesting thus so far. But the starvation obsessed.  

Yet, through the folds of life patterns and backed by the tiny learning, I've now a concrete answer for it. As to test what he had, I asked the guy beside me, ‘Do you think such as the time now we share in leisure with something to drink and broach over simple matters at ease as a happy time or what is called happiness?”

He shook his head sincerely. He must have had far fancier teeming before his chasing thoughts. So I told him that I had expected the same response from him. He showed a faint pensive smile.

In gradual process the answer somehow conjured up thus, ‘Then what to be devoured as you wish? Since the infinity of time back and ahead on must be or to be the same or worse. Then what to feel seized away or missed?’

As a Tibetan saying goes on, ‘The wine (homemade grain wine) prepared by oneself has to be taken, even if it’s too sour.’  The insightful irony teaches me what lies ahead, the same monotonousness as what I do and give way to…

Dear Mother

As my age advances on amid plodding feelings ruefully apologizing for every failure, especially the core failure as against your only wish for what I to be, I am yet palpable of your even such tiny piece of advice, the astute way of taming me, relating to what we saw en route for Paro Bazaar from the school. After crossing the rickety ancient bridge roofed and plank-floored, walking alongside the asphalted road lined with short-fat-trunked willows on either side and leaping over the gutter by the road to take the foot path between the road and the head-high compound wall of the palace, you pointed to a guy urinating into a pond by the road on the other side and taught me through frightening yet impressive story of how such misdeed like urinating in water would be punished in the hell.

‘Ashang Choegyal (Uncle Dharma Raj), the inspector general of hell, would command you in his heart-shuddering tone to sieve away urine from the water,’ she said with motherly love to teach me through her way. It’s a sort of riddle for me then. I at once got the maze-work, when I was almost 7. I wondered how one could strain urine from water like solid things or skim it like cream from milk. It’s the impossibility or the heavy conundrum that made me dread more than the school annual examinations. So since then I’ve best avoided doing so.

Through self-inflicted pains and quasi joys I have come to be able to forebear an obnoxious grimace from a complete stranger taking it as the reaction of his pains and desperation…

Through indolent high-will I've come to accept with resignation that even such will, though latent, matters before pettier messes.

Through such folds of oddities I can make it present what lies ahead or in the end.

But through the incorrigible deceit of this conceit, the rooted notion of independence, I do confess that it’s the prime stronghold in close-hand-tie with biased self-love that overpower and shroud the latency estranged alien like something preposterous.

Yet, those pieces of yours interspersed amid such messes glisten, heal, inspire—the only source of prop up, a push forward. They’re my jewels, my life-breaths to brave ahead an inch in sound way that doesn’t mean what it’s taken as ‘able’, ‘clever’, ‘reputed’ in the way coveted or what life is interpreted to be or should be. And a piece of yours:

A corny soul flutters over fusses

A solicitude unfelt aloof muses—

The sour-joy burden taken numbed

For insomnia those wiles chaff-wounded.