रेस्क्यु

झ्यालमै यसरी अड्किएर कक्रिरहेको रहेछ, रुप्पी। समातेर रेस्क्यु गरिदिऊँन त भन्दा पनि ठाडै ठुङ्न खोज्दो रहेछ। लौ त, जसरी जालास् आफैँ जालास् भनेर छोडिदिएँ।

तर, सोचमग्न भएँ एकछिन।

साला यो गुड विल भन्ने चिज आफु हर्ट हुनु या नहुनु के चैँ हो!

हर्ट हुनु हो भने अरुलाई पनि हर्ट नै होला फेरि! या अरुलाई हर्ट भएर आफुलाई हर्ट हुँदो हो। गोलगोल घुमिरहने कुरो!

यति घोत्लेपछि रुप्पीको सात्तो जाने गरेर यौटा प्लास्टिकको ब्याग उठाएँ र तर्साएँ त्यसलाई त्यसले।

बस्। रुप्पी उड्यो। आत्तिएर उड्यो।

जसरी उडे पनि, जसरी उडाए पनि, सजिलो किसिमले भयो। रेस्क्यु।

चराको अनुभव?

सायद फरक होला। किनकि चराहरु मान्छे भन्दा धेरै ठुलो आकाशका हुन्छन्।

कसैको झ्यालमै अड्किनु, त्यसमाथि मान्छेको हुँङ्कारले सात्तै जानु, ज्यानको माया मारेर ज्यानलाई बचाउनु! २–४ मिनेट भित्रमा २–४ वटा प्रलय खेप्यो होला बिचराले।

त्यसको भलो होस्।

**

 

बुई

पानीलाई

बादलले होइन

बादललाई

पानीले बोक्छ ।

पानी—

बस् एक

विशुद्ध तत्व हो

जो चड्दैन बुई ।

बुई त

प्रदुषण चड्छ

पानी माथि

धेरै- धेरै कुराहरु भएर ।

कसरी बन्नु, र बनिरहनु 'फूल' ?

'फूल' देख्नलाई
पहिलो र अन्तिम शर्त
यो हो कि
तिमी आफैँ 'फूल' हुनुपर्छ

र सँधैभरि
'फूल' भइरहन...
गार्हो छ !

आँखा लाइदिन्छन्
खुट्टै लाइदिन्छन्
अनाहकमा 
प्याच्च थुकिदिन्छन्
यहाँसम्म कि 
मलमुत्रले
फोहर पारिदिन्छन्

ख्यालख्यालमा
नजिकै आएर
माया जताए जस्तो गरी
मनपरी चुँडिदिन्छन्, 
छाँटिदिन्छन्
लतारिदिन्छन् पत्र- पत्रमा
छरिदिन्छन्

कसरी बन्नु, र बनिरहनु

'फूल' ?

कुरोको चुरो

गाइगोरुलाई 

लगाए जस्तो तगारो 

लाएर चल्दैन जेठा 

यी कान्छाहरु 

बाठा भैसके अब 

जेठाहरुको मति देखेर

Soil

I take my roots to
wherever I go;
but taking the roots along
does not mean
that I also take the soil
along.

And when the soil itself
is different,
the strength it gives
is also different.

I might blossom in similar ways;
in similar ways,

might I bear fruits.

But then,

in the roots, in the trunk, in the branches

and in the fruits,

I either

harden-stiffen

or I

become more

succulent—as if sweet juice

is about to drip down. 

Into a big, bare tree

I might grow … still holding

a formidable sky.

Or just die

I might—soon enough…

like a yellow plant, in my relocation—

things

will be different:

time, place and space,

friends and foes,

light and shade.    

This is… how it is!

The laws of life, starting right from the soil,

ends right in the soil.  

['Soil' first appeared in Grey Sparrow Journal, USA]

Here I talk about writing with Siam Sarower Jamil, RTV journo from Bangladesh

IN IMPHAL TIMES

IN E-PAO

IN RTV WEBSITE (IN BANGALI)

ए हिउँहरु हो !

ए हिउँहरु हो !

नगर, गर्दै नगर

तिमीहरुको चिSSसो जड राजनीति

र छाडिदेऊ अब

नदीहरुलाई

नदीहरुसँगै

नदीहरुकै स्वतन्त्र देशमा ।

आकाश

Photo Source: Facebook

आहा, हेर विकास,

यो माथिको आकाश !

रङ्गिचङ्गी क्या राम्रो

मनै छुने यो हाम्रो !

बादलका बुट्टा ती

सेता, काला, कलेजी

लुकामारी खेली खेली

रमाएका हेर ती !

भुरुरुरु उडेर

चरी जस्तै डुलेर

माथि माथि जाउँ कि

खेली उफ्री आऊँ कि ?!

सिमा हुन्न यसको रे

रहस्यमै यो छ रे !

Liminal Life

Life is
liminal
liminal
liminal

so a crow caws
from a branch in the

swishing dark

outside the window-
pane

drops of tiny
travelers

hang for a breath

on the bare
teary trees

against which
I stand
as a blurry image of myself.

हिँडे जति बाटो मेरो ...

हिँडे जति बाटो मेरो

Image Credit -- Google

नहिँडेको त खै कसको- कसको ...

छ यो जीवन हिँडनु मै छ
हिँडेर कहीँ न कहीँ पुग्नु मै छ
पछाडिका पाइलाहरुमा मेटिए पनि
अगाडिका पाइलाहरुमा भेटिनु मै छ
जीवन बाँच्दै जाँदा अनुभूत हुने
मिथ्या र सत्यको मेल रै'छ

हिँडे जति बाटो मेरो
नहिँडेको त खै कसको- कसको ...

अँध्यारोमा ढल्-पल् ढल्-पल्
छचल्किन खोज्ने ए मनको रारा !
आफ्नै छायाँ पनि हराउछ
नलागे सम्म आकाशका जून-तारा
थोरै मुस्कानले बाटै उज्यालो
धेरैले त झन् जीवन सारा

हिँडे जति बाटो मेरो
नहिँडेको त खै कसको- कसको ...

Read the transcreation in English in Mad Swirl

Earth

is a 
beautiful poem
where i see—or read—or seek poetry
like poetry
in a poem.

पानीपन

डाँडा र खोँचहरु

हराएर जान्छन् पानीमा जसरी

जसरी आउँछन्

हावा / वतासको अघि- अघि

फेरि उचालिएर तरङ्गमा

टिलिक् पिलिक्

रङ

र टलकहरु

टल्किन्छन् जसरी

नाच्दै- खेल्दै हातेमालो गरेर

थाक्दैनन् जसरी

दिनरात

मार्छन् साउती जसरी

स- साना केटाकेटीहरुलेजस्तो

भुलिदिन्छन् जसरी 

छिनकोछिनमै

धार र खोबिल्टाहरु

लाग्छ— उसै गरी

भुलिदिऊँ

नराम्रो-

भित्र राम्रो खोजूँ

आफू-

भित्र राम्रो बनूँ

रङहीनता-

भित्र रङ देखूँ ...

लाग्छ— पानी बनूँ,

मात्र पानी !

र जाऊँ

पानीकै

कञ्चन देशमा

जहाँ

भएर पनि

न डाँडा- खोँचहरु छन्

न उफान छ रङहरुको

न छन् धार र खोबिल्टाहरु;

छ त केवल—   

पानीपन ।

हिमाल भर्सेस् पहाड

हिमाल भन्दा
कता हो कता राम्रा हुन्छन् पहाडहरु

ठिक्क उचाइ ठिक्क हुन्छ
धेरै अग्लिएपछि त धारैधार हुन्छ
धारमा टेक्न / समाउन पुगियो भने
नराम्रोसँग काट्छन् तिनले
झुक्याएर भीर-भड्खालामा पार्छन् तिनले
झर्यो भने माथिबाट चिसो हिउँको पहिरो

नदीमुहान नै थुनिन सक्छ / पड्किन सक्छ
तल तल भक्कानिन सक्छन् गाउँबस्तीहरु
सास फेर्नै गार्हो गराउने हुन्छन् हिमचुलीहरु
तिनको बिस्वासमा मर्दै नमरी मरेजस्तो हुन्छ
हेर्दा देखिने स्निग्ध र शीतल यी हिउँका चुचुराहरु
अनुभवमा सार्है कक्र्याउने हुन्छन् / पोल्ने हुन्छन्

हिमाल भन्दा
कता हो कता राम्रा हुन्छन् पहाडहरु

कति हो कति पहाडहरुद्वारा
उचालिएका यी चि S S सा कैलाश पर्बतहरु
हरियाली देखिसहँदैनन् — जहिल्यै पनि
एउटै सुर हुन्छ यिनीहरुको — कसरी कक्र्याउने
र कसरी भगाउने छिटो- छिटो मान्छेहरुलाई
आफ्ना छुद्र / दरिद्र अनुहारहरु देखाएर ?

जबकि, पहाडहरु आफ्नै काखमा
एउटी ममतामयी आमाले जस्तो हुर्काउछन् हामीलाई —
हर त्यो कुरा दिएर
जो आवस्यक हुन्छ हामीलाई; हो —
हिमालबिनाको पहाड र पहाडबिनाको हिमाल
हुनै सक्दैन, तर फेरि पनि पहाड ... पहाड नै हो !

हिमाल भन्दा
कता हो कता राम्रा हुन्छन् पहाडहरु ...

Should It Be Like This?

Under the umbrellas of

mushrooms

there are

ants awaiting

the rain

to stop;

nearby

is a cast(l)e of termites.

Should it be like this?

Standing as a Tree

I am—

between two extremes of
emotions—

temporizing

in this

branching tree
that’s one with my
Earth and sky.    

पातहरूको एक दिन

Photo credit-- Google

बाटोभरि परैसम्म
छिर्केमिर्के, राता-पहेँला
पातहरु

चर्याप् चिरिप्प्
चर्याप् चिरिप्प्
चकमन्न ...

Sweet Sweat

Photo credit-- Google

I've tasted
drops of sweat
trickling down
my swollen arms
and rough fingers
onto the hoe
to beds of soil
to green leaves
to
succulent
or
ambrosial
fruits and crops.

This sweet taste.

**

(With edits from Diane Smith of Grey Sparrow)

Love for Peace

I am
in love with Peace!
but she’s not in love with me.

Who else or what else
is not?

This culture of
camouflage that I’m part of,
I detest it.

This part of the world that did not listen to me,
that I did not listen to.

These hollow
cores of culture, fruits of maladies.

Ring of pollution. Depletion of
moral layers.

Is it the decadence of
religions? Masquerades
of terrorism? Dramatizations
of dirty politics? Abductions of
Truth and Love?

Or this
Villain Time … This Villain Time
that is mad for Power—Power of Victory—
so mad
that it forcibly corners
and then
commits a brutal rape of Innocence—if it doesn’t get
what it wants …

Or is it
the Providence of Divine Grace?
The Providence that just
looks on (enjoying?)
the agonies and cries
of so many poor beings …
like me.

**

(In Romanian, translated by Daniel Dragomirescu, poet, translator and editor of Contemporary Literary Horizon)

Golden Morning

i.

When mountains,
in unison, carry

the sun on their shoulders

only then
is there

a golden morning.

ii.

Shafts of sunlight

penetrate
the dark woods—

here,
on this exotic Earth,

Nature’s 
kaleidoscopic brush

paints the canvas: such
magic!

iii.

Everything’s
psychedelic.

The birds
chirping,
rivulets
burbling,
the breeze
combing,
butterflies
fluttering,
in love with this
young light.

I breathe in
the wild
sweet
fragrance. 

iv.

Such a veil

transects the ashen
village

far below
where my folks live

surrounded by these
creped, giant hills

and a river
monster . . .

with no road
to the Capital.

**

(With edits from Diane Smith of Grey Sparrow) 

Call Me a Madman!

“Call me a madman!” he cried—

“All of my oeuvre
is witness to myself: A Kalidas*
cutting a worm-eaten, societal branch, sitting
on the wrong end of it. You must have
guts to do that!

Kalidas
is not a myth, but a real rebel: a powerful metaphor
of rebellion
used as a powerful weapon
by conformists,
by hypocrites!

Call me a madman!
Because I think—

not of the pain

I’ll incur to myself
but of the cure
I might be able
to bring for all.”

Dreams in the Kingdom of Chaos

There was a man in the kingdom of Chaos. His name was Melodious Music. He contrasted with the warring elements of the kingdom... by their uproars, their thundering beats and plays. His silence pervaded among the syllables of coarse voices, and the passers-by believed him to be being-less... Nobody realized the weight of his predilections, his love.

For decades no Columbus came. God took pity on Melodious Music and sent a poet called Plato-banish. This poet was so inspired by Melodious Music’s profundity that he started writing mellifluous lines that emitted the scent of wisdom and wit, while he learned, gradually, with amazing patience and hope, to not pay attention to what the kiddish leaders were swearing and yelling at, and to not zoom in on the dirt and maladies but the cool spring drizzles washing them away and the petrichor pervading every rift and razor. He touched, without touching, every flower and thorn, every absence and presence, every tune and tone...

The same poet came to me in an eerie reverie. I was delighted listening to his illuminating insights, but then, I abruptly awakened hearing Chaos laughing loudly. He danced like a crazy shaman, beating a drum, drum drum humdrum, humdrum humdrum. What? Well, he was threatening the poet in my dream!

He said: “You are a sinful spirit. You’re not welcome without my consent to sneak into a man’s dream in this kingdom of ours! You’ve stolen our captive Melodious Music, and that’s a crime big enough to send you to hell.” He chanted his chaotic mantras, lashing my body with what he called a yak’s hide-strap. I cried to deaf ears. Oh, I cried, and he said: “I’ll cure you of this evil spirit which you’ve so warmly welcomed within you! I’m not beating you, but that perky pesky poet!”

In my desperate effort to free myself from the maddening grip of Chaos, I threw myself at him. Collecting all of my guts, while feeling terribly sorry for Plato-banish who was so badly received and sworn at, I uttered the poet’s uplifting words soaked in Melodious Music’s mantra, and again kicked Chaos down to the ground, hitting, hitting, hitting him with a handy stone. With this pummeling, he finally bled to death. Then, I yelled so sharp that my throat felt heavy pain, veins swelling... and I awakened in a panic, sweating all over my body on bed. It was pitch dark, but I could see through the dynamics of the ubiquitous reign of chaos and conflict, my fury stranded in between, and the infinite universe of probabilities. 

First appeared in MadSwirl

भकुन्डो

केटाकेटी छँदा
थोत्राथोत्री मोचाभित्र
बोराका टुक्रा
या टालाटुली कोचेर बनाएको सानो भकुन्डो खेलिन्थ्यो
र भकुन्डो जति थोत्रियो
उति सिलाउँथ्यौँ हामी
ओर्तिर - पर्तिरका चोसाचोसीहरु तानेर,
र जब सकिन्नथ्यो सिलाउन,
हामी त्यसलाई अर्कै मोचाको लुगा फेरिदिन्थ्यौ
र चिटिक्क देखिन्थ्यो भकुन्डो फेरि  !

आजकल त बिलकुल छोडियो भकुन्डो खेल्न
जबदेखि थालियो भकुन्डिन आफैँ,
बुझ्न थालियो 
कि आफू मात्र हैन 
सारा देश...  
सिङ्गो पृथ्वी नै भकुन्डिँदैछ...
एक से एक मत्त खेलाडीहरुको माझमा
प्रश्न खाली गोलको हुन्छ, पेलानको हुन्छ ...
जब कि
देश— प्रान्तका  सीमानाहरु
च्यातिएका छन् धुजाधुजा,
ढुट्टिएका छन् अनेकन् क्षेत्रहरु;
तर कुनै खेलाडी सर्दैन अघि
सिलाउन यो भकुन्डो पृथ्वी, जोगाउन यो भकुन्डो पृथ्वी  ।

________________
English Version:

Football

We used to play with a small ball
made out of an old sock
with one or two holes in it—

all sewn,

and tightened
by stuffing 

scraps of useless cloth

or jute sack;
and the more the ball became tattered,
the more we had to sew it
by pulling together
each of its fraying fringes, and when
we couldn't sew it any more,
we used to clothe it
in another sock, and then
it'd look neat and clean again! 

But these days
I've given up playing football altogether—
when I myself
started getting customarily kicked off, I realized

that the whole country... the whole Earth itself
is also being kicked off
among the A-One, drunk players,
the question is only
of goals and exertion
of force and pressure, whereas
the boarders of nations—provinces
are in fraying rags, with too many
regions razed to the ground.
Still … no player comes to the fore
to sew... and save
this ball of Earth.  

(Composition and Translation: Haris Adhikari; First appeared in Grey Sparrow Journal, USA)