VISIT OF APPARITION AFTER A YEAR OF GRANNY’S DEMISE

It was a weary climb uphill to my hamlet. The path led through scrubs of thorny boughs overhanging undulating route that abutted against barley field on both sides with copiously grown red crowns nearing harvest. The scorching sun tanned me brick red as I walked staggering forth perspiring all the while, when I heard an abrupt commotion in the field. I could hear women wailing and chanting of Mantra that swept through barleys right to me. Having my inquisition tickled and to unearth the bizarre situation, I swerved through the barbed wire fence fighting my way through barleys impeding my way and straight ahead headed for the source of commotion. I descended down a bit taking a detour around a stupa sending curls of colloidal smokes that faded beyond the horizon.


From a distance of score meters or so I could see group of folks stampeding toward the scene and some flocked around a woman, trying to allay her pain who lay there whimpering and wriggling like an earthworm in a scorching sunlight. I jostled my way through, flicking my dark hair behind my ear and zeroing my sight on the poor lady dusted by the earth she rolled upon. Oh! Isn’t she my mother? Her countenance, she looks like her, yes! She was my mother. My father had slipped his fumbling arms around her neck gently stroking her gazing at the crowd and to my mother out of confusion. Brox, our dog was sitting on his haunches, barking in the void facing away from the crowd. They were guarding the field in a temporarily constructed shed. Terrified, I squatted near my parents gasping air hard, “what happened to her, dad”, I asked my weepy father, stiff wrinkles on his forehead faltering as he breathed hard drawing air that rumbled through his nose.


“I think spirit has gotten inside her, it will be fine. We have summoned saint from the monastery, he would be on his way”. My mother moaned, and giving us all a surprise glance she asked, “ Could I get a cup of tea, please? I am really thirsty for I haven’t drunken a sip of it in ages, please, please”, she pleaded now and then. My father drew thermos flask from the basket, took out a cup from his *hemchu, wiped it clean with his sleeves and poured tea in it and offered to her who gulped hungrily through her gullet. I think she took four. Then, she began, “I feel immensely solaced to be finally at home and having my thirst quenched, it makes me euphoric. Where are my children? I want to meet and hug them; it’s been almost a year since I last saw them”. The boisterous crowds were whispering, “it’s the spirit of my grandma who succumbed to prolonged ailment of malignant gastric cancer at Thimphu JDWNR Hospital in 2008”.

 My father’s calloused palm clutched my mom as she (the spirit) spoke, “I detest the supervisor who lets us toil hard. In the morning he takes us atop to three-peaked mountains ( Ri sum tse ) and makes us descend down to the confluence of three rivers (Chu sum Dhue) in the evening. The iron boot we are provided with wears off in a single day. Neither are we bestowed with food nor with a drop of water. The wife of my son maltreats my daughter Ngawang who I left with them after my demise. I saw her beat and push my daughter with unbearable tantrums that could deafen ones’ ear. When I stood infront of your door, you all ignored my presence and did not respond to me when all I wanted to know was to assure you all were happy”.


 My grand ma’s sister who was amongst the crowd asked my mom (the spirit), “Do you meet our brother in law, your husband in the world you live in?” My grandma’s husband died a year in his senile age before my granny passed away. “No, he was a pious man while on earth. He must have been born somewhere unlike us who by virtue of sin commission is left astray to find our own route suffering all the while. Ask them to come here, my friends are watching me”, my granny pleaded pointing her index finger, to the utter amazement of the crowd who stood quizzically puzzled. I learnt that our deity who resides in everyone’s house do not allow alien spirits beyond the threshold of the house where they didn’t belong, that’s why the other spirits were standing outside in a spot where my granny was pointing her index finger . “ I know I am dead and with the weight of sin clung on to me, I cannot find my way out than to undergo atonement. While on earth, you have to earn good merits, help those destitute vagrants who extend their arms on streets, love animals and all sentient beings. Life is but one big test, a test to check your honesty, altruism, philanthropy and the good in you. I have to go now, take good care of my children”.

Soon as she finished saying it, my mom gave a shriek of pain, muted for half a minute and resurrected into herself. Glaring at the crowd bearing shocking visage, she was like, “why are you looking at me? Has anything happened to me?” she rose up, wiped clean the dust from her dress by few gentle taps and headed home like a small kid, without even looking back for once. This is a true story narrated to me by my fiancé who after repeated petition decided to get rid of my pestering queries by telling me those tales. To preserve the veracity of the tale, I have written the story putting myself in her boot. The story changed my life; I know now what is there in those worlds after one passes away. If you hear faint chime of bells emanating out of my house and alight quaint monkish attire I wear, don’t get surprised...I have gotten into praying….

 Karma Thukten 3rd of September, 2012

NOMADS-THE GALLANT ARMIES ALONG THE BORDER

GALLANT NOMADS-THE ARMIES ALONG THE BORDER

In bright raiment of black and red,
Hail! Every single nomad,
Ones, who prop our pride tall
To this festive carnival.

Enclose our untainted love and respect,
Shoved safe, deep in your pocket,
O! mighty warriors of the Himalaya,
Disseminate it all across, Merak to Laya.

Fatigued by arduous wintry toil,
Tilling the earth of our Bhutanese soil,
And of all torments, I shan’t mention
To ward off all alien intrusion.

Plugged in a pot-hole, like a welded iron blade
To curb trickling water evade,
Unarmed in unison you all stand
To protect our Bhutanese land !

Highland cultures and traditions you preserve,
Immense reverence from us you deserve,
Bhutan flaunts of your age-long lore
With incessant air of vanity galore !

Come, let us celebrate, I got an idea
To mark this day with utmost euphoria,
Let’s fill our glasses to the hilt
And gobble it to astounding mores you have built !

While living along exquisite border tinted with beauty
Lost in your strenuous labor, your daily duty
Keeping our country’s foes barred,
Mind you, you’re not ignored but remembered !



3rd February, 2012
Karma Thukten
Forest Officer
Wangchuck Centennial Park, Bumthang
For 3rd Annual Nomadic Festival, 23rd-25th February, 2012

MAN IN THE MIRROR

MAN IN THE MIRROR

I once looked in the mirror,
Exquisite frame studded with gold,
Last time I saw, I was twenty four,
Now, I am 60 years old.

A worn-out languid figure
Gazed back at me,
Shriveled face with no vigour,
I was dubious of his identity.

Who was it in the mirror?
Frail, senile and ugly,
Then, to my utter horror,
His familiar countenance told me, it was me.

The figure stared at me contemptuously,
“You are hideous goon unlike your other peers,
Estranged from your own affable family,
Now, for you, there’s none to shed tears”.

“For money, you stooped low,
Aloof from the family you had been,
That you didn’t even know
Your son had turned eighteen”.

I retort, “I have wealth,
On nutritious food, I feed,
Great physique and good health,
Isn’t it all an old man need?”

“Can wealth buy love you robbed of family?
Or trade with your erstwhile youth?
Can it afford laughter of glee?
Or replace your fallen tooth?”

Queer figure continued, “Life is a playful park
To be with your family, to fill the gap,
Waking together in the morn, retreating in the dark,
To see your kid take his first baby-step”.

I with much plight realize then,
Children eschewed me, so did my wife,
Having all treasures and monetary gain,
Yet, I had lost so much in life!

Karma Thukten
13th July, 2011

THE BIRTH OF A CURSED PRINCE

BIRTH OF A CURSED PRINCE

6th May, 1986 was special,
It was a historic milestone,
With eccentric ways the nature celebrated
The birth of a Royal son.

Heaven drizzled tears of delectation
Filling up earthly crevices and rut
Footing to the tunes of patter,
Hail! The lineage of Royal blood.

Birds chirped and dandelions swarm aloft,
Fun galore for youths and teens,
Earth was never ‘ere blessed
With the birth of a majestic prince.

Folks flaunted of their age long lore,
Wine in a glass filled to the hilt,
Hopeful citizens sang praises
Congregating from near and far afield.


Every nooks of the county were lit
By dazzling luminescent beams of fiery flame,
O! This was the day citizens were waiting for,
A venerable prince, the kingdom’s helm.

There was joyance on the ground,
There was ecstasy in the mist
Along the bonfires did the folks dance
Merrily they drank and merrily they kissed.

In the heaven, there was a feast
On that very occasion,
Angels, fairies and god
Commemorated the day the prince was born.

White bearded God made a toast,
“To the success of our long dreamt dream,
To the prince we sent beneath,
Finally, from the heaven, we got rid of him!”

Karma Thukten
1st of July, 2011

FACELESS ANGEL

FACELESS ANGEL

Into the untainted cloudless skies
With brimful teary eyes,
Gazing through the wide flung door,
Whom was she sobbing for?

Her face in the veil of night,
Whose beauty the darkness did blight,
Cheeks smeared by thick teary stain,
She was so beautiful even then.

Flowers pinned into her plaited hair
Drooping in the tear drenched air,
Her face nestled on her elbow,
Was she waiting for her beau?

Peering at the abandoned road
Over the fields of barley and oat,
She hid her face in her palms
with tears fretting soft fleshes of her arms.

Wall in muted shades of red
Had a photo of a youthful lad,
Encased in a dexterous hand-made frame,
“My love Karma”, his name?

The glossy lips of an unknown hue
like a leaf blade gently caressed by the dew,
Oh! It glistened in the dark
Like a dungeon lit by a lightning spark.

Would he come for her?
Or is he stuck in the murky woods afar?
Or by the guiding star misled?
Fighting mists in the dark, dead?

Or the songs she kissed in the wind
Shall bestow him the hint,
The pure love she had kept,
Died waiting at the spot where she wept?
.


Karma Thukten
26th of June, 2011

NIGHT OF HORROR

Clatter of thunder,
Incessant, unabated downpour,
In the dark I was
In partial stupor.

Vision obscure…
Smokes billowing in the graveyard
A wrinkled bloody hand
Crept up through the earth.

Cross rose high,
Tilted and fell apart,
Earth loosened and sank in
As the hand pushed up hard.

Squealing wind ferried
The dead souls’ pine
Throwing chills along
The spine of mine.

Dead rose from the coffin
With hollow chest or a shattered knee,
Lifeless warriors of war
Stampeded towards me.

Nauseating stench in the air,
Eerily silent it got,
Save for the frothy saliva
Gushing through my throat.

Body bathed in cold sweats,
Heart palpitated fast,
Few minutes more
And I won’t last!

Solitary and dead terrified,
I had every reason
To turn off, then,
The wretched television.


Karma Thukten
25th November, 2010

NEW HOSTEL, INDIRA GANDHI NATIONAL FOREST ACADEMY, DEHRADUN-MY ROOM # B-1

Towards the mess, take a slight left turn,
You will see a room, in the face of sun,
Precisely, you get this direction,
Then you stand at the door of room # B-1

Still, you got that confusion
To spot out my room # B-1,
Perhaps then, you may want a small hint,
Simple, ideally follow the course of wind.

GPS, maps and compass you need not
Or laud praises in the name of lord
To get to my room, no haste and don’t run
For the room is conspicuous, room # B-1.

Before the room stands Pterocarpus, a massive tree,
A small garden with flowers that sway free,
Dull looking door with none to adorn
Has the room # B-1.

And if, of your instincts, you’re sure
Give a knock or gentle tap on the door,
Smiling, busy, worn-out or with a yawn
But, you will be welcomed in room # B-1.

Through the window, drawn with brown curtain,
You have the panoramic view of distant mountain,
Birds, amazing creatures and of seasonal flowers you learn
in this room, room # B-1.

Have hot steaming tea, feel at home
For whoever has come,
Spent few minutes here and did return
Always covets to be back here, room # B-1.

I did enjoy and I had fun,
Reminiscences of works well done!
And of a thing I shall warn,
Once here, twice you’ll be, room # B-1


Karma Thukten
09th of November, 2010

AN EPISTLE

A LETTER FROM MY YOUNGER SISTER

I
Was peeking through the window ajar, a tree squealing in the storm, its apex bent through considerable angle that I feared the tree would break, thick droplets of rain pattering over black pitched road and people pacing to and fro hastily not forgetting to exchange rapid greeting by way of reluctant nods, when I heard footsteps approaching the threshold of my door.

‘Tap…tap’, someone knocked, I shrugged woolen blanket from my warmly wrapped body aside and stood up to see who it was.

Drenched in the rain, hairs muddled into messy strands and with an agitated face stood our college messenger in a bowing posture,

“Sir, I got a letter for you” and shoved his fumbling hand into his hemchu*and took out a crumbled envelope, bearing my name,

‘‘To,
Karma Thukten
Sherubtse College- Kanglung’’

On the right top vertex was pasted a torn stamp with a fortress bearing the name- Paro Dzong** in silhouette, rest being rendered obscure possibly by the water that seeped in the messenger’s pocket. I could see Nu.10 on the stamp and partially distorted seal, “Wamrong post office”. The stamp had a serrated outline.

“Any idea, who sent this letter to me?”
“I have no idea sir; it was brought to me by the postman. I thought it would be imperative and mean emergency so I rushed here”.

“ Here, sir’’, the messenger handed over the epistle and hurried downstairs giving me no opportunity to even say,’’ Thank you” or call him over a cup of hot steaming tea.

Looking at the envelope from all facets conjecturing who would have sent it, a medium that’s nudged away and ignored by many upon the advent of modern media, I sat on the pile of my blanket heaped on the bed to open it.

I tore open the envelope assuring the page inside intact and sent my inquisitive glances over the words written.

It was one paged letter penned down over an orthodox ruled paper with horrible pencil handwriting to have been written by any of my adult friends, to the best of my knowledge and it read:


It was a brief writing jotted down with much perseverance and love by my younger sister, Tshewang Lhamo whom we fondly call zamin meaning ‘girl’ in our eastern parlance, at home.

I felt a sudden trauma in my heart as I read through the lines. It has been awhile and possibly ages since I haven’t met my family and to get apprised my younger brother, Dawa fallen ill. The letter, though brief appeared so eloquent, though erroneous looked grammatically perfect and reading for more than thrice had me shedding brimful of tears.

For sometime, I lay on my bed looking at how my joy could fit in that piece of chit my younger sister sent me. I knew I wouldn’t have been that exulted had some bosses in a firm sent a promotion memo or a billet-doux from one’s heartthrob.

Messages in a phone get deleted, sweet words of our sweet heart get forgotten, that can only be partially remembered upon hard recollection but a letter of that ilk from someone who loves you beyond surmise more than your love remains there to be read once, twice, thrice and repeatedly to smile amid tears and feel someone’s there for you when whole world stands aside, away from you.

I can’t say how happy I was that moment but can certainly bet I was the happiest of all, that very moment.


Karma Thukten
4th of November, 2010

*Hemchu is a pocket made by a Bhutanese male gown

THERE, HE IS MY FATHER

THERE, HE IS MY FATHER

Didn’t you hold my flabby hand
And lead me through the crowd,
Seating me on your lap
And of my visage laud?

Didn’t you recount tales
Million times told,
Just to lull me into sleep
When I was a year old?

Wasn’t it your tear
From a crestfallen heart,
Incessantly trickling on my cheeks
When your marriage tore apart?

Didn’t you swap your onus
Of being mom and dad
To cater juveniles four,
Whose smiles kept you glad?

Wasn’t it you, who taught me the word, ‘dad’
Which with soft tweets I mumbled,
Hearing which words you wept
Covertly with hands fumbled?

Whenever thorns pricked my soft flesh,
Wasn’t it you, who bore the agony,
Condemning self for not being good
Taking care of me?

No matter how hideous,
Destitute, old or lame
The parents are, their
Children will always love them.

My father, aged are you now,
Vision, weak to see
Your son standing to hold your hand
And walk together as once you did to me.





KARMA THUKTEN
31ST OF AUGUST, 2010

KARMA THUKTEN

 

 

SWEET MONSOON SHOWER

Flowers fill the fallow farm
As monsoon rain spill,
Morning fresh and weather warm,
Monsoon’s down the hill.

Autumn hails brimful of smiles
Of joyous monsoon rain,
Seeping along thousand miles,
It bickers down the drain.

Sings in delight the monsoon rain
Pattering on my window sill,
“I give the farmers grain
And shower at my will”.

Trees sway in unison
When breeze ascends the valley,
Merry birds chirp in fun
Soaring aloft in rally.

Covertly patrols Sarus Crane,
Mooing buffaloes wallow,
Dipping in monsoon rain
Ponds wide and shallow.

Morning damp and foliage green,
Earth abound with cherries,
When monsoon ushers in
Brings in heavenly bliss!

Floral aroma in the air
With laden pollen dust,
To pray, I shall dare,
Monsoon forever last!



Karma Thukten
3rd of August, 2010

TIGER AND THE LAMB

Dimly was the evening lit,
Bleakly shone the moon,
Tick-tick the clock ticked
Seven past the noon.

Staggered forth a thirsty lamb
To where a brook was,
Tiger hid hushed and dumb
Behind the lemon grass.

Alighting beast anon to pounce,
“Spare me”, the lamb cried,
“I weigh lean half an ounce
Won’t appease your appetite”.

“My limbs frail and lean,
Born back the dozen days,
Insipid flesh and belly thin,
Just learnt to graze”.

“How ravenous a tiger is,
Grasses, we munch not,
Predate preys not to please.
To live”, the tiger roared.

“Our food’s hard earned,
Got two cubs to feed,
Empty belly I hunt
We don’t live on tumble-weed”.

“Labyrinth-nature plays,
Doleful creatures stray.
Foodweb’s a maze,
For long it’ll stay”.


“Feet injured and teeth blunt,
Cubs in me has no faith,
If I don’t hunt,
Won’t they starve to death?”

“If morrow, grasses plead
to feed on huss
Or on a fetid meat,
Would you forgo grass?”

“Devour me”, the lamb bleat,
“My skin for you, friend.
Let your cubs feed
Till I wholly end”.



Karma Thukten
4th Of August, 2010