The silken curtain of reminiscences is fluttering in the window of my eyes.
In each fringe of the curtain peers a rainbow and vanishes.
In each nap of the eyes a rose blooms and wilts away.
How tender was the time bygone
the yearnings there were higher than the hills.
How swiftly spent were the days
when I had embarked on such an enormous journey.
Like the darling beloveds in arms secure
the days never return.
Like a crystal morning to kiss himal
the celebrations leave behind mere a memory.
The past slips like the drops of tears the eyelashes cannot hold back
Only in the present we are aware of the time slipped by us.
At large from grip time too becomes a bull
leaving behind only reminiscences.

_______________________
himal- mountain

THE FULL MOON AT THE RIVERBANK

Looking into the mirror
of emerald meadow waters,
the moon has flashed a fruity chuckle.
Tickled by the gentle touch of a breeze
the water spreads into wavelets,
and the entire moon appears to be an infant
swinging in a cradle.
The waterbirds, as if to jab their beaks through the moon,
fly out of sight, fluttering their wings.
The trees across the river
stand still as if to shoulder the entire era.
Lamps flickering in the houses big and small
on either bank adorn like the stars.
The horizon narrowing gradually
has descended to stick onto the hill of the bank.
The moon now crossing the yonder region of waters
has come down to rest atop me.
I wonder
from where gathered a flock of sheep like clouds,
like a furry pasmina the clouds pulled over them,
and the sheet of the full moon spread on the meadow of waters.
Probably the switch to turn on and off
each sparkling moment is in the hand of these clouds.

THE SUN READYING TO SET

The sun is ready to sink down the western hills.
The shadows are striding fast towards the east.
The birds are in search of a safe shelter.
Water laden sullen clouds
are weeping the remaining light too into their womb.
Probably very soon the darkness will descend to us.

There isn’t good sign water is showering upon biskun.
There isn’t good augur the jar of auspices is trembling to fall.
The birds are flying suffocated by the smell of gunpowder.
In the broad daylight owls are hooting, vultures are issuing a harsh cry.
Shakuni guffaws are being resounded incessantly.
The light is vanishing from our courtyard.
And thus the night is preparing to wallow in darkness.

There is no sign a graceful morning will bloom.
No sign of a glimpse of the blue sky.
There’s a wild fire, the hills are wrapped in black smoke.
The dark horse is galloping amuck off the way.
Suddenly something seems to have begun to get lost.
The open sky where pigeons soar has begun to get lost.
And thus the night is preparing to be darker.

GRANDMOTHER’S SOUL TOO DEPARTED THAT DAY

Grandmother’s eyes would gleam on the walls of this house
and a music of a jaltaranga would resonate from her fingers.
Sunakhari and Suryamukhi would bloom in each bed of this house.
Their fragrance wafted through the garden and settled on her lips.
Mangal ghada at the threshold would be brimmed with her youthful eyes.
Her feet landed soft as cotton in each going in and out
and shone like a blessing at the darkest times.
Each gloomy moment flowed a sargam on kharuki like a brook,
like a ripe experience in difficult time.
Leaping into a series and forgetting to link those easy days,
entered a day unceremoniously like a glutton
Ghyaling weeping bitterly the wind on the road too stood still,
As if a collapse of an era in a narrow courtyard of this house,
grandmother’s soul too departed that day.

A pair of eyes staring blankly like ducks and hens grandmother scrupulously
bought, a herd of desires withered like the flowers grandmother looked for and picked up
woke up from each road and alleyway and walked up to Rimborchhe
Started from every nook and cranny of the village and flowed up to this refuge of love
Big or small every room of the house looked empty like grandmother’s toothless mouth
The future stood bolt upright like Bajrathinga and tough as iron chips
The eyes grew blurred in the broad daylight and ran into the walls.
Flowers on Grandmother’s lips wilted away making dews weep and the garden crumble down
In Thongu the meditating Buddha while getting Lamas to utter incantations
Grandmother’s heaven too reached the top of the hill.
As if a disastrous ruin of the entire world in the narrow courtyard of this house
Grandmother’s soul too departed that day.

Sayapatri blossoms, heaped upon her hair squeezing tears out of my eyes
                                                           adorned her as ever like a rose
Veiled behind clouds the sun sent out scanty light and decorated her as ever
                                                                                like a fragrance.
Her final day, scattered I was into the gathering like a kantur or jantar
Grandmother treasured so long.
The eyes of the entire village stuck to every window and opening of this house,
As If left in the lurch in an alien city of dream, how this all happened in reality?
Who did knife Grandmother’s age not even discovered in imagination.
Stiched long ago and treasured for long the Bhoto too shredded to tatters today
As if set ablaze was the history of the entire creation in the narrow courtyard of
                                                                                       this house
Grandmother’s soul too departed that day.

HAVING BEEN A PENSIONOR

Becharmed I have been long
by all these enchanting days.
Remained captive for ages in the cage,
mistaking it for a golden one.
Setting tongue in other’s tune,
I have forgotten the song
of my own life.
I feel a seething pain somewhere in me,
but fail to trace.
The heart pains somewhere within,
but I grow insensible.
I keep humming to myself
something never and to none revealed.
The route I believed
I had been on to this day
has cast its clothes off.
The companion I walked together all along,
too, have emerged astir
in the dark of the night.
I possess neither a complacence
nor any anxiety.
The dream lay down,
I am not buoyant too.
Wings to soar up are with me
Yet, light’s warm kiss is not there.
The fresh and open sky is with me.
However neither I long to fly
nor am I inclined to perch in the nest.
I drift from branch to branch;
I stare into every foliage.
The sun fallen to the west,
I get shadowed by the shadow of the tree.
Snapped I have incessantly played
the fractured chord of the sarangi.
with the bank,
that journeyed with me all through.
Removed I have my own name,
that hung on the wall for years.
Like an ever free bird,
grown I have light as air.
Yet in the heart,
cradled I have
the weight of the cloudy past.
Undoubtedly, having lost a little
I have gained a lot.

THIS IS HOW BHUSHANJEE LIVES

Bhushanjee gets to the office and flops down;
lays the poet in him on the table.
presses him down by the paperweight and treasures him;
stuffs his self esteem into the shoulder-bag;
shoves the knowledge in him into oblivion;
regards the boss, a dullard,
the greatest of the great minds;
hangs the office ID card
down from his neck with a string,
as if tied he has been
with a rope like a buffalo.
And this is how Bhusanjee lives.

With approach of five
Bhusanjee heads for home.
Restores in him the poet
flipped up from the table;
gets the fatigued poet to relish a drink;
sometimes scribbles some thing right there,
and rips off into pieces,
or else writes in the morning and tears apart;
grossly lies the wife naive as a cow;
shrinks away from the shrewd daughter;
this is how Bhushanjee lives.

Waits eagerly for a call
from the son abroad;
grabs the receiver at the first ring;
loses temper at the voice of a stranger.
Undecided whether to weep
or to share it with someone,
bearing this all and much more,
this is how Bhushanjee lives.

TO MY BELOVED SISTER

Had you been a handkerchief,
I would have kept in my pocket sprinkling some scent on you.
Had you been a butterfly,
I would have placed you atop a flower.
Had you been a pigeon,
I would have set free from the buigal to soar high in the sky.

But you happened to be a human and flew as a kite.
Whoever has flown you, urge him to return you to the earth.
Nani, Nani, not only the sprightliness of a brook,
but also an ocean’s gravity is there in your untarnished fearlessness.
Alone on the horizon of my room I have been engraving letters
attempting to portray you.
You, a live Monalisa, let the secret of your gravity spread over all.

Sometimes you romp about clanging like the coins in my pocket.
At times like a white hare you carry the entire world in your eyes.
I wonder how so sweet words too turn harsh; I called you ‘Kali’ one day.
The bond of sanctity appears so lovely; I loved to hear you call me ‘Kale’.
Let ever resonate the music of such words; I crave for it even in dream.
Like a rose which is made of petals, bloom among thorns I feel so.
If there is a divinity I make him worship your feet.
If a flower prettier than you blooms anywhere, I will offer but to you.

__________________________________
buigal – the floor below the roof.