This stance at the helm..
Being Pundit of one’s own realm.
Devoured by Anticipations
Crammed with Total disgruntlement.
The more you grow:
The more it becomes inapt to vent.
And there they are..
All behind the barss..
by the way you dress
by that look on your face.
Myan how borndates used to be
about slicing celebration and glee.
But Year after year..
Slipping unto this asocial state-
How it has now become an ambuscade..
camouflaging beneath the reality zone’
Dragging another circle down the gravestone.
Wrecking away every inches of freedom
manifestation of all these random-
Responsibilities. duties .income.
Dreams and downfalls and criticism
The apathy . The enthusiasm..
Stupidity and the voices of Wisdom.
Certainly’ growing up has been a cozen..but amidst these ruse ” shalt I instead grow-wings to strive for enshrouded connections and answers to all the possibles-
But again it is all but an illusion.
Memories seems almost blurry
of the days..
With null traces of worry.
That fragrance of freedom..
Whisking unescorted by care.
Those raiments of curiosity..
Back when life treated you so fair..
All them crucible filled with innocence,
Making sense out of every fuckin non sense.
Step onto step getting insanity unfold
Prowling within the notions untold.
| Baffled and enignatic |
Gazing the subliminal phases,
How thousands nights have turned cobalt,
And the lambents’ peeling off the ages..
Scrutinizing the time oscillation’
as it steadily acidifies into equivocation.
Now Thunderclaped to this purlieu of answerability..
The boundness .
The obligation .
Those nugatory pride in being unified
All it was but the act of vengeance,
The deeds of genocide..
Unwritten history got raped,
The errection of varna
Shanghaied into the Dharma
To fill ones forehead with sacrifices
Confined only to bow down to stones
While was it the air and water and earth
The spirits that fortified our bones.
1846 – कोत पर्व
Fabric of Intrigue and
the rise of autocracy
Isolationism . Debauchery .
Trading off the sentient asset..
To gollop from their asses
in exchange for filthy lucre..
and Choke on it,
Corruption squelS from every street.
104 Years of gluttony,
Supression and agony
सती प्रथा.. दाश प्रथा..
सात सालको क्रान्ति
र त्यस पछिकाे अर्काे कथा
Civil liberties curtailed ..
Press freedom restrained..
Untill the 90 when
‘ together ‘ The multiparties inflated..
‘ together ‘ Panchayat they castrated.
The serrated tune hits my memory fresh
That grisly night of bloodshed
Those hundred mornings of Mourning heads.
Whole nation soaked in gore..
Yet everything unsettled concealed at its core..
The Narayanhiti mystery
Lost within the fabricated history.
Guerilla war :
Reek of lachrymator
Fills cranium with terror
Those nights of curfews
Endless days of horror
Masses resonance down the streets
gunning and bombing and charging sticks..
dialectical confrontation between brothers,
People of victimized class and the leftist druthers.
Devouring the revolutionary Curse..
Coffins overstated with remorse..
All. for .zilch.
Glitch scar the only attain.
And even after the monarchy has been eradicated
Still lingers this remnants of feudal mindset
kaput 601 flunked effectuating thier fucked up pledge
Capitalism here.. teetering permanently forever on the edge.
Where did we go wrong ?
Oh where did we ?
A new day..
A new phase..
Same random sways.
Rant. and . rage.
ahh Nevermind .
the tick tock ticks tap 4 o clock’..
but here I am Still Wide awake as fuck.
And cRYaving the gr..een.
Flipping arbitrary pages..
All diluted gazes..
Le strenuous juncture.
These somnolent nights.
As the impetuous befalls,
the amnesia betides.
And the activation
Of Pshycomotor agitation
Iritation and hesitation
now all Crushing the crust
of craggy clefty confound cranium .
Fucking Insomniac. OH ! mad mad terrible.
Shielded with Alps..
indeed the highest.
Bestowed upon us
all these Adam’s ale
and what not ?
The wilderness don’t shrivel
Cultures they never slumber.
This is the domain of Dancing Demon
Realm of living Goddess,
The Genesis of Nirvana.
This is a sole terrain,
Only with the pennon ensign
Epitomizing festoon of sun
enthroned with the crescent moon
Hailing from the Himalayan hymns..
This is my motherland.
The thoughts of people here
are narrow and dense as the greenest forest.
and the political ideology:
as diverse as these inestimable cultures.
the system : same fucked up same like them upper geological framework..
i would fight and brawl for the nation
but who's gonna stand for my rights ?
here i am, still chained..confined..
within the same old traditional paradigm of he and she values.
i would die for my country too
but how come it never accords me enough opportunity to even live ?
Patriotism doesn't provide me with job
and money never did grew in flag-waving
only does it ends me..
being one among those youths:
frustrated and indignant.
full of neglected dreams and yearns and rant,
for all those years of being pressurized-
to fetch the keister
on my shoulders of monstrous sized .
believe whatever had been advertised
got institutionalized and contrived
just to despise..
the schools and powers and authority
only to realize..
the conspiracy and the irony
that reclines beneath them certificates;
which now is rusting at the core of my casket,
"Step the hell out of this fucking motherland"
अोढाई ती ग्लानिका कम्बल,
एकाएक काँँचुुली फेेरेे झैैं
सट्टापट्टा गर्नेे मेेरा मानसिक स्वभाबहरु..
प्रारम्भ गरी – ती रुपान्तरण प्रक्रिया,
जीवित कठपुतली झैं
असहाय लाचार तुलाउने मलाई –
साला ती रत्तीएका मेरा परछाईहरुलाई
याे निचचक्र युद्धभूमिमा घिसार्दै..लच्छार्दै..
क्रोधित ती प्रतिबिम्बकाे नरसंहार
निरर्थक विचारधारणकाे दाहसंस्कार गर्दै
मसानघाटका जलेका खरानीका राखहरु बाट
विजयी भई फिजिएका मेरा यी विद्रोहि प्वांखहरु ..
स्वंम्-द्वन्द्वमा अाेइरिएका ज्वालाका तापहरुमा
नवीकृत भई उम्किएका मेरा यी असपर्शित श्वासहरु..
निरन्तर सुदृढ ॥
For the ones who i still have
Despite the differences:
the stand bys
and the acceptance.
From all those I ever had..
The right ones . the true ones
The inner rusts
Vile, bogus. the lost ones
savoring not only the frolic hue
But as well the stagnation
and the devils blue .
For living is not just about
opulence. merriment and glee.
For what is Life ?
without some misery and affliction?
murk and desolation?
Yea and the depression is real
Got nothing here to conceal
The dellusions . Illusions.
Delirium and Confusions.
All … Real.
See ! i dont give a fuck about your God
or those who wants me to find one.
To search heaven inside thier television set
To follow .
blindfolded and hollow.
and feebly swallow..
Whatever they feed me.
Because i have seen enough
felt and faced enough
No mortal. No Jovian . No fuckinprescription gonna halt these whirlwind.
The escape is nowhere but within.
For this is Me
I am my own creator
My own enemy
The self victim . A disease
I am my own remedy.
If I can split –
So can I coalesce
I shall transgress
Withstand and aggress
All these sways shall I supress
will i hold the grisp of reality
Define back my own morality
To live laugh learn for humanity
For this life has no guarantee myan
And I choose to rot in between these vicissitude
ALL IN ALL
Only to rise stronger.
Snatched in betwixt’
All midst the alters..
The hasty cyclone..
The Rapid cycling..
One after other
All these emotions’
The loquacious episodes..
The floating. dripping.salty..rampage.
amid all frantic..
all the chaos..
this effete voidness..
Gleaning selves up’
unhanding ’em again
Gleaning And unhanding .
Over and over
The murder of a benign concern..
An indigent colleen,
Left away the anguish of 11 missed calls
And her bitter dubiety of
being bumped into ignorance.
Only if it was unknown.
Only if was the unknown..
then gaily would i swallow the excuse..
For strangers and delusions have always blended together.
For have i always detest these preface:
Like receiving to response my own fucking recognition?
I would rather omit it.
And few times..
assuredly I even elide the notables..
For have the “Hello” always been so so cumbrous.
Perhaps. Many time .
But yours was not hell-bent sister,
Its this aversion to transmitting voices..
the vocalization and the socialization..
often culminating my Blower..
Or else dormant
Or on flight .the most.
For oh Hast it always been the Blower..
Like The tintinnabulates striking anxiety
Or the elucidation provoking stutter.
And the taciturn muting conversations.
So..I rather eliminate it all ..thee see.
Sister ! You were not disdained deliberately ..in fact, everyone i solicitude have been shunned..Here..in this audible domain.
Never a solemn foodie
But i relish Kitchen
Of course next to the sanctuary
And the commode realm.
But Kitchen is Kitchen myan
This is where the makutu happens
An occult ceremony on flame.
Where the raws are rended
sundered and prepared..
groovin to the chiming rythm of cutter
As it drubs against the chopping slab
And the cadence of lohoro
As it goes thrashing the silauta
The whistle of cooker..
The scratching of grinder..
The bursting fenugreek..
Or the cracking of cumins..
Seeds and plants.
Then those discrete aromas of
Bay leaves and coriander and Garlic and ginger .and Timur. Cloves . Asafoetida..
Along the pungent whiff of kashmiri mirch
As it gravitates…
Right deep into the searing hot oil
And how the exhaust fan
Vaccums away all the miasma..
Welcome to the karahi’
For a vital creation
Where anaemic lumps turn vigorous
With just a pinch of yellow rhizome.
Or some chilli pepper.
Ohh! No thing appeases the eye..
then to ogle
the cheese melt..
the batter bubble..
As it twirls
round and round
Inside those translucent microwave.
This is where I galvanize all the senses.
This is where I bend the Fire and water.the earth.
This is where I ingest the colors.
This is the kitchen.
My recent den.