Nostalgia of Ganganagar

A city in Chitwan, hundred fifty miles south of Kathmandu,
Lived those who constantly fight against blaze and downpour.
Monsoon washes away homes, living stocks and loved ones.
But you have to go on, Ke Gar Ne!

Unpredictable rhinos appear in the middle of field,
Chasing farmers and playing hide and seek.
Lions’ paws lingering and being relentless.
But you have to survive, Ke Gar Ne!

Wake up at five, have a Del Bat.
Work until my hands shiver, eat another Del Bat.
Hashish - Have A Smoke Happily In Snowy Himalayan!
For life is still great, Ke Gar Ne!


* Ke Gar Ne = "What else you can do" in Nepali

Ganganagar is the village I volunteered in 2003 with INFO Nepal, a non-profit organization.

Duster

I remember you.
A bamboo stick disguised under of brown-red feather.
Placed on top of the cupboard like a relentless god.
A punishment for a small lie, misbehavior or unsatisfactory report.
You gave me pain, when mom or dad smacked you hard on my delicate skin.
You gave me shame, when classmates laughed at the red-whitish marks you left.

I remember you.
My brother and I annihilated.
We plucked your feathers one by one.
We snapped your body in half.
A tyranny overthrown; a revenge taken; a cruelty destroyed.
Your brother came the next day, more colorful feathers, more powerful stick.

I remember you.
Gradually you did your job, you have disappeared;
You have no role in such family –
Aging parents, grownup kids thousands miles away.
You have no spot in my parents’ mind –
Now occupied with travel plans, health problems and the wait for grandkids.

Now I know that.
I am at my mother’s age.
Adulthood hasn’t become easier with wisdom.
Responsibilities don’t necessarily go with recognitions and rewards.
Parenthood is an aspiration, but also a perplexing function.
The ultimate patience, unrequited efforts and unconditional love

Now I know that.
I should thank you for having developed me,
An overall decent person, I try to only lie for good reason.
Though not everything comes satisfactory, I have used all my excellence.
All the pain reminded me life is bitter when it is not sweet.
All the shame motivated me to aim high to reach.


Now I know that.
When I saw mom and dad waving to me at the airport,
Staggering with their luggage, a silhouette against the sinking sun.
Time has shown on their grey hairs and furrowed forehead.
I am no more a girl, but I still cause them trouble.
Sometimes I forget, maybe I never said, I love you mom and dad.

Poem in Anger

Emotionless. He looks like those replicas in Madam Tuso.
Restless. He wrestles and hassles like a mouse in cage.
Time. Meaningless if there is no sense of importance and urgency.
Help. No one hear him. No one see him. Wonder himself, insignificant or unseen.
World. His own world. Isolated. Surreal. Dreamy. Uncertainties.
Anger. People think he is lucky. Only he knows the flames breath out and in.
His song. Nowhere man, doesn’t know what he is doing.
His plan for nobody. His point of view doesn’t exist.
Joy and peace. Maybe the early spring next year will give a hint.

Weary Professional

My first attempt of a poem, using first peson voice.
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What is more exhausting than a whole day work?
What is more stressful than a tight deadline project?
A professional, I used to be; now a jobless dad with two kids to feed.
I went back home with the big envelop, only to find my wife’s exciting look.
Anther baby is expected, she said, and hopefully I would soon get promoted.
The word “layoff” came to the tip of my tongue;
Yet I curbed it, and tried to smile somewhat hesitant.

Everyday I still wake up early like a professional will.
Wearing a suit, my wife will help make my tie.
I take the TTC going southbound to Bay Street,
cologne, briefcase, and Business Week.
Take out my Blackberry every minute,
pretending clients need me as advisor, who offers them much wit.
I elbow my way to get off from Union Station,
like a veteran in the corporate jungle.
Fittest survives, stepping on others’ toes and heels are just fine.

Another listless day! Wasting, struggling, whining, agonizing and pretending.
There is nothing I can do, no place I can go, no one I can share my shame.
“Outlook” no longer shows me the agenda; painful to pretend I am still a lawyer.
I sit at a table in Timothy’s, starting my day reading magazine with some intensity.
I planned my exact response if I bump into different acquaintances.
You know, the next big thing, great opportunity. Waiting for me, I can not miss.
I spend the afternoon wandering in Eaton Center, window shopping and
imagining how I could have spent the annual bonus, which I would never receive.

Squeeze into the train going back to the North. It is rush hour.
People were moving back and forth like dominos.
My shirt is wrinkled, making me more like a weary professional.
My wife would ask me about my day and my hypothetical project.
Same old, same old. It is exhausting. It is stressful.