Sunday, April 30, 2017

Let the Words find me.

As the little rapids shine reflecting moon and light from the crematorium, I stand leaning my arms upon handrails. With puffs of cigarettes and dogs lurking and barking in the night, I get lost in my own thoughts. It's been for a while, that I haven't thought nor have pondered about anything lately. 


The labours at site tell me that too many people die in this town, that too many cremations have taken place. I smile, I don't say anything to them. Nor to their queries about where do so many people come from, in Bhutan? I have lost interest in educating them. It's too late perhaps, or maybe we all are just too busy at the site, all we see is progress. Few have worked for companies like LNT or Gammon before, albeit they haven't seen those machines which I once had, I refuse to argue or debate with them to tell them that my current firm is a growing one and it would take decades to buy equipments like the conglomerates would. Their words of comparison with India to Bhutan, their comparisons to their past sites and current one, their comparison to their materials and ones we get at site - mostly demeaning to the current firm - I feel tired to explain it to them. I have realized I cannot change perspectives, I cannot change intuitions - I just can upgrade mine. 

Then I move towards the crematorium, few vehicles have approached and I remember at times, the crematorium parking being empty. Is it judgmental to think that the position and achievement of a man is depicted by the people who show up at the funerals?

Then I remember those days, when it was dusty at our end, yet we were working. And on the other side, a chemical reaction of those would take place - from smoke to ashes and eventually being flown away by the river. A man's conquest might have ended there, but his legacies, his stories of triumph and achievements were sung by those who were alive. Perhaps, the dead ones are in much peace than the ones who are alive? Or else, what's the purpose of discussing who is dead?  

The connection to life and dead seems tempting, and maybe the whole of universe has been conspired to be on the move. 
The river flows, 
the wind blows, 
the tree grows, 
the fire glows, 
wind which the smoke follows. 
Blood in your vein, 
waves in your brain, 
a student to train, 
those lights and cars on lane, 
and your abating pain. 
Everything seems to be on the move, and nobody could actually be clairvoyant upon what unravels or unveils. Yet, we all claim to be presumptuous, pretentious and experts upon certain things. How sure are we that our equations of mathematics won't betray us? Nature seems too versatile and vast to be understood, we can't keep parameters at constants to dissect and drive conclusions upon her, like we do to certain sects of folks and their tribes over mainstream media. How hypocritical we become when we claim that we are feminists but give into patriarchy while we claim our identity? How much literate and educated we are, when we accuse those who aren't for being orthodox, narrow and shallow in their heads? Could the amount of books a person has read define his soul? Could a university degree explain a man's capability? 

I do not know, and everything under this thick blanket of night, with twinkling stars and shining moon makes me ponder. The dogs never stop barking, perhaps she too has the same issue which half of our town's females do: her husband cheated on her? Or is it that it is the grumpy dog who is aging? Or is it that one dog barked and the other one had to bark inorder to make him quiet and they retaliated and they all landed up barking each other? Oh, is that Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un versions? Or are there few dogs who are conspiracy theorists out there, claiming their territories? Oh, that must be it, territories! Dogs and Humans have fought for ages for territories, all over the world. 

I look into the cigarette stick, a cone of fire and ash, amalgamated like a dock, smoke ferries away like a lost soul, higher it reaches and vanishes. And I still stand here, hoping the words could come out and I could write something sensible, something interesting, something magnificent. Words that could make my pen dance, that could make my mouth filled with water, that could increase my heart beat, that could flow in my veins and resonate in my pulse, tinker and tickle my brain, juxtapose with that feeling of having my bladder filled, taste them like spicy cuisines on my tongue, feel its warmth and chills on my skin, pierce like the shrieks of thousand witches through my spinal cord - I just hope for, dream for, wish for - the words to find me. 

2 comments :

  1. I shall wait to get a autographed book of yours when the words find you finally ;)

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  2. I can clearly see that so many beautiful words have already found you, Bhai.... It's a beautifully expressed article.... Loved it.... Keep posting such interesting stories.

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