tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8654138061162983072024-02-19T22:03:36.552+05:30Highways & BywaysAnjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-37838636148053210472012-05-26T00:07:00.000+05:302012-05-26T00:07:40.746+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />She came and hugged me last night at last<br /> And I wafted into my imagination and dreams<br /> <br /> She wrapped me in her arms as she kissed my crown<br /> Melting away the thorns by her gentle crystal springs<br /><span class="text_exposed_show"> <br /> She ran her fingers over my wounded back<br /> Spreading the wings and giving them air<br /> <br /> Yes she came and hugged me last night at last<br /> Without intimidation but with symmetry of a lost wish<br /> <br /> She kissed my lips, first tenderly, then hungrily <br /> Feeding me with reasons to write stories and realize dreams<br /> <br /> So I gave myself to her,who was me and she, gave to me<br /> And yes all this was just fair and happened with a mysterious ease<br /> <br /> Then she touched my chest, with her hands, eyes and lips<br /> opening the cage she set my heart free<br /> <br /> Yes she came and hugged me last night at last<br /> And I wafted into my imagination and dreams.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2lYu_MKol_qxVzJW-mNlg6-kABvdP8o2QzIPZ1q7QUcuBqRDNwlIMZWTC6ICbi3VYs2-AN_tnd8r-RwI4sZadN0OtBu6b0scVTwUo8-TAb0cOjxQdVC3YPOvFi0FEfuGMVM2JeMHq8w/s1600/7th+march+052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF2lYu_MKol_qxVzJW-mNlg6-kABvdP8o2QzIPZ1q7QUcuBqRDNwlIMZWTC6ICbi3VYs2-AN_tnd8r-RwI4sZadN0OtBu6b0scVTwUo8-TAb0cOjxQdVC3YPOvFi0FEfuGMVM2JeMHq8w/s640/7th+march+052.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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</div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-88859381892347607832011-12-19T23:34:00.000+05:302011-12-19T23:34:04.915+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}">Darkness and silence,<br />
Silence and fear,<br />
A crack in the door, a sliver of night<br />
Rushes of insanity, claws of dread sink into the mind's flesh<br />
Fear and pain,<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"> Pain and terror,<br />
Covered by shame, armour of skin proves hopeless<br />
Killed by guilt, strangled by nightmares<br />
Choked by tears day after day for years.</span></span></span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></h6><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQE8M08pQDxGdyPTc61vFzCn_VwdLeirHOW15wVxOyVQ5ZHN0xXQYK9Wlf2VSkIuihzFiVWD20yZFvB9_GCaRXYyymejbQ6vQh0CPCjralUHLb7WO2i5AV93AgyIUZheiwO8BEfrBZLM/s1600/tortured.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQE8M08pQDxGdyPTc61vFzCn_VwdLeirHOW15wVxOyVQ5ZHN0xXQYK9Wlf2VSkIuihzFiVWD20yZFvB9_GCaRXYyymejbQ6vQh0CPCjralUHLb7WO2i5AV93AgyIUZheiwO8BEfrBZLM/s640/tortured.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":1}" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></h6></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-88160076985070437772011-12-15T23:29:00.003+05:302011-12-15T23:39:29.541+05:30Fallen Angel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
A chill follows as I walk into the room<br />
And that overpowering stench of scorched flesh<br />
I see nothing, but feel the presence of hers.<br />
Fear crawls over me; I know she moves but makes no sound<br />
And all the while watches me with those razor like eyes.<br />
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" I know you are there and I have felt you before" I shout.<br />
A warmth envelopes me and the room seems empty now.<br />
Who is this demon in my head that leaves me when I scream<br />
To go away to return when I am unprepared; unaware<br />
A perpetual emptiness; a loneliness that I cannot spare?<br />
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Weep if you want, or yell or better beg.<br />
Pop pills or drink yourself till you are almost dead.<br />
What you want most is that you can never have.<br />
Cause you have never learnt to love your own self.<br />
The shadow will vanquish you to the brink of insanity.<br />
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She is back again, now I see her blurred in the mirror<br />
Bound by the chains of her own images and errors.<br />
She speaks not, nor seeks any help; just stares<br />
Angels say that if I stop tracing her patterns in my heart <br />
I can see her clear; for she is nobody but a fallen me. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFNIESsxRAKpFzH9SBGIB1p2k9QB-J9yx97qF6cLPYRbERFp_COjQe9XlLphd0gi9RBw7eEs71i2IRCAhAZ_6aW5uMI-0sVdswYztGG_xdB1zOxsHx6i_o2w6WL9Yo4ipaXqJ3qhNRow/s1600/cry-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFNIESsxRAKpFzH9SBGIB1p2k9QB-J9yx97qF6cLPYRbERFp_COjQe9XlLphd0gi9RBw7eEs71i2IRCAhAZ_6aW5uMI-0sVdswYztGG_xdB1zOxsHx6i_o2w6WL9Yo4ipaXqJ3qhNRow/s640/cry-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-20034927482227165362011-12-15T20:17:00.002+05:302011-12-15T23:00:14.769+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
Come, let's sail on those unknown waves<br />
Silent.<br />
Do not ask me who I am.<br />
And I will not ask you what you are.<br />
Just come with your solitude.<br />
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Come, let's drown our pasts in the deep sea.<br />
Defy.<br />
Do not ask me what the boundaries are.<br />
And I will not give a care what the rituals are.<br />
Just come with your solitude.<br />
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Come, lets bury our memories in the sand.<br />
Nothingness.<br />
Do not weave the threads of dream.<br />
Do not carry the specks of hope.<br />
Just come with your solitude.<br />
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</div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-17665180431870752782011-12-04T23:47:00.011+05:302011-12-12T23:42:02.220+05:30Some things begin with a smile... ( Bhutan Story 2 )<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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So with the cooing of the pigeons and a butter-like sunshine and the great bursts of leaving growing on the trees outside my arched windows, I got up with that familiar conviction that the day if not the whole life is beginning again and I can make it as good or as bad as I want to.<br />
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Now, now do not get me wrong. I am certainly not a moron but all these Zen like wisdom dawns and re-dawns on me only and only when I am travelling. I can be curious, energetic, philosophical alias sensible, enthusiastic, adventurous with a bit of madness while I am wearing my travelling shoes. But take off those shoes, and tie me in the house or the office and oh, you are then the cursed one, who took away the very energy, the very oxygen that keeps me ticking.<br />
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But ah, I need to tell you where we are heading now....or at least were supposed to. The Tiger's Nest. An extremely revered monastery, perched gingerly on a cliff, requiring hours of trek up, all for the one moment, the precious moment of bliss. :)<br />
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But some phone calls and we realise that all the good resorts/ hotels in Punakha and most in Thimpu are booked for the Royal Wedding. In fact some guests with confirmed booking at Punakha were requested not to come as the invitees for the Royal Wedding had already started coming. Personally I can do with the basic. Not that comforts and once in a while luxury does not matter to me. Like you know most of the un-ushered think ideal romance should be flowers, wine and Paris. But usher yourself into travelling, let it grow in you and you will realise that romance can be up in some mountains, biting the freshly plucked apples and lying on the shadows of the apple trees with the sun caressing your bare legs.<br />
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And you can always replace the sun with someone's hand if you wanna.<br />
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Well, so the sun is still butterly warm and nice but plans need to be replaced. <b>J</b> and <b>M</b> need their comfort. Not just clean beds and a clean shower kinda accommodation for them. So how positively we accept this unaccepted news and decide to change, decides how the rest of the holiday would feel. The original plan of Paro, Haa, Thimpu and Punakha changes to Paro, Thimpu and Bumthang.....and we return to the hotel to pack our things and head to Thimpu as we just have one working day to see that we have our permits with us. Yes, for Paro and Thimpu Indians do not need permits but to venture else where you need permits from the Bhutanese immigration office.....that can be done in person, through the travel agent or even the hotel help desk.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiaqUQGyTRj9JeDvfoQfi3Iz8WPp0FFZMBR0fFmtorUlY7Bvx18B1T7aAqQMvVCVWErdRn771E_RpbVn9Vf2Whay4z85OW_mS7l4WfctpeZBKZVwY_NpKVsJ9niaotqX9TVwmXIFqzZI/s1600/19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiaqUQGyTRj9JeDvfoQfi3Iz8WPp0FFZMBR0fFmtorUlY7Bvx18B1T7aAqQMvVCVWErdRn771E_RpbVn9Vf2Whay4z85OW_mS7l4WfctpeZBKZVwY_NpKVsJ9niaotqX9TVwmXIFqzZI/s640/19.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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It is a beautiful 2 hours drive from Paro to Thimpu, along the Wang Chhu ( river) and you can stop to buy the fresh fruits, churpis ( if you have the taste and teeth for it) etc from the road side stalls. But NOooooo, the Thimpu of my parents' days, with those quaintly carved stone houses, forests that ended almost at your fence had changed. It looked like an ugly, concrete mess mushrooming haphazardly where ever it found some space. The malls and the hotels were an eye sore. Only one night here and no more I decide. Yes, there are some nice places to see like the Trashi Chhoe Dzong, the National Institute of Traditional Medicine, Mini-Zoo, the Institute of 13 Art forms of Bhutan ......<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKhbSRhakh10luBYkyl5jITopOAWgPL6htuqH4VNRVGwxxwa90BcICk-BquMKoSB_52XI3E4C-GgIhQ8z57bfmTTOV7ek9Dj06F2eKxDkK-jx8Vi5HWZHFSixnORAETWT-sXvVITsqRs/s1600/3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFKhbSRhakh10luBYkyl5jITopOAWgPL6htuqH4VNRVGwxxwa90BcICk-BquMKoSB_52XI3E4C-GgIhQ8z57bfmTTOV7ek9Dj06F2eKxDkK-jx8Vi5HWZHFSixnORAETWT-sXvVITsqRs/s320/3.jpg" width="320" /></a>The last seemed the most interesting to me. And we head to see it. Yes, they are still done by hand with lots of respect and dedication and the artists still earn a lot of reverence if not money. I try to spent sometime talking with the students, wondering if I am an intruder.....but they are polite and with again that infectious smile that follows you so often, they explain to me with patience the art, its intricacies and the years of labour it requires to master it. They give a throaty laugh when I tell them how clumsy and hopeless I can be in art....and say everyone has something within as the creator cannot create anyone without leaving a piece of that within the person. I give them a smile, if it was a joke, I love it....and if it was the truth...i love it more.<br />
And with that sheepish smile still on my face I continue admiring the art forms.<br />
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1. Dezo or the art of hand made paper making, made mainly from the Daphne plant and gum from a creeper root.<br />
2. Dozo or Stonework or Stone arts used in the construction of stone pools and the outer walls of dzongs, goenpa (monasteries), stupas etc.<br />
3.Garzo, the Blacksmithing used to make everyday items such as farm tools, knives, swords, and utensils.<br />
4.Jinzo or the Clay arts used to make those beautiful religious statues and ritual objects, pottery and the construction of buildings using mortar, plaster, and rammed earth.<br />
5.Lhazo or Painting one sees on thangkas (religious wall hangings), walls paintings, and statues to the decorations on furniture and window-frames.<br />
6.Lugzo, the Bronze casting learnt to produce bronze roof-crests, statues, bells, and ritual instruments, in addition to jewelry and household items using sand casting and lost-wax casting. Larger statues are made by repoussé.<br />
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7.Parzo - Wood, slate, and stone carving used for printing blocks for religious texts, masks, furniture, altars, and the slate images adorning many shrines and altars.<br />
8.Shagzo or Wood turning for making a variety of bowls, plates, cups, and other containers.<br />
9.Shingzo the Woodwork in the construction of dzongs and goenpa (monasteries)<br />
10.Thagzo - Weaving: The production of some of the most intricately woven fabrics produced in Asia.<br />
11.Trözo - Silver, Copper and Goldsmithing make jewelry, ritual objects, and utilitarian household items.<br />
12.Tshazo - Cane and Bamboo Work: The production of such varied items as bows and arrows, baskets, drinks containers, utensils, musical instruments, fences, and mats.<br />
13.Tshemazo – Needlework to make clothes, boots, or the most intricate of applique thangkas (religious wall hangings).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc-XPOcsMTa1d_aZT5L53aaUuaKssL1j9WEk4glqJwDH0CSUnIAFs5EofkhPVV-lvH0l1Vc99GFSgWeLHdv4qHhOGWJDDTN1o_tb3v-Zcvhc7oRQRuKNLp5hVeevShYhDePRkTI9tYYk/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikc-XPOcsMTa1d_aZT5L53aaUuaKssL1j9WEk4glqJwDH0CSUnIAFs5EofkhPVV-lvH0l1Vc99GFSgWeLHdv4qHhOGWJDDTN1o_tb3v-Zcvhc7oRQRuKNLp5hVeevShYhDePRkTI9tYYk/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7Z3Pcb-NheIGyKYuUpWeZAuNP5xchYJobdtI2Kt_C90yVIefeWuH4DH2Iz6gL11agJbcmpVQoV2ORfOYewxqIImj0-lXqKSQm9jaSaPvGXwEOXcWYTPD7KxV695TgtRIxw27nvTQz1c/s1600/29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7Z3Pcb-NheIGyKYuUpWeZAuNP5xchYJobdtI2Kt_C90yVIefeWuH4DH2Iz6gL11agJbcmpVQoV2ORfOYewxqIImj0-lXqKSQm9jaSaPvGXwEOXcWYTPD7KxV695TgtRIxw27nvTQz1c/s640/29.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>We go to The Telecom centre to get the view of Thimpu town.....and yes, it is a beautiful valley you notice and can give some wonderful night shots. But I am in a mood to race <b>M </b>down the road and <b>J </b>has to find a Prado by night for the long journey to Bumthang we have planned for the next day.<br />
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Bhutan has many and various kinds of SUVs but peak season and yes, you need to really work for it. We did and the next morning I see the Prado parked outside the hotel and <b>M</b> gets so excited he baptizes it with a new name the Beast.<br />
After <b>J</b>'s spinal injury he needs a comfortable vehicle to do long distances and the Beast was just right.<br />
The journey begins and as soon as you reach the outskirts of Thimpu town, the apple orchards, forests of blue pine and mountains become your companions. Goempas and lakhangs are numerous on the route but we decide not to do too many lest we become " goempa fatigued".<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XJozDJGZTf7agxm3tcmA_TmJHcTGLEbf-kOVtSES-vAnWNBxfV1HD8CTPoILf7OD2DOyxxmyNzru0jZhm9YKid2Tr1OwHLSsAmz_OphdS8rr_wBPxg4RRMzkWA2uvvT2AY3_PowEj60/s1600/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9XJozDJGZTf7agxm3tcmA_TmJHcTGLEbf-kOVtSES-vAnWNBxfV1HD8CTPoILf7OD2DOyxxmyNzru0jZhm9YKid2Tr1OwHLSsAmz_OphdS8rr_wBPxg4RRMzkWA2uvvT2AY3_PowEj60/s640/25.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnuVQWenHuSxnXcpkRiOQQYAiZGkvLtQMlUSMuvMPQpofm_nZkQh1DZ1KOvyN82W23Cbay2anVOjbcWUs0OoEFq-kvdLx3wQ2FSxS-vQCoiPZxC6cagS1uThPn0lp2fAUVG1E5saqnoo/s1600/26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnuVQWenHuSxnXcpkRiOQQYAiZGkvLtQMlUSMuvMPQpofm_nZkQh1DZ1KOvyN82W23Cbay2anVOjbcWUs0OoEFq-kvdLx3wQ2FSxS-vQCoiPZxC6cagS1uThPn0lp2fAUVG1E5saqnoo/s640/26.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiANd1F-3JN5RADdx-_4QQEeoaQEQKDS0GhhfZNMHB3dgpkuuGgS1XGSMYt83inpjx0MOyJpOp9K5giCqPQZDCqgfkmGKMzMQLQoORKLqK6nMBx7DHsw1Bfy-501WCgzhhn1p_yT5hcM/s1600/24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiANd1F-3JN5RADdx-_4QQEeoaQEQKDS0GhhfZNMHB3dgpkuuGgS1XGSMYt83inpjx0MOyJpOp9K5giCqPQZDCqgfkmGKMzMQLQoORKLqK6nMBx7DHsw1Bfy-501WCgzhhn1p_yT5hcM/s640/24.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> So our first stop is at Dochu La ( 3140mts) marked by an array of prayer flags of all hue and 108 chortens. A place I fell in love with instantly. Imagine oneself sitting on the steps or the green grass amidst the silence of chortens and watching the snow-capped Bhutan Himalayas.<br />
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Yes, things that give you the real peace or pleasure can not be bought by money; they are simply priceless. I do not know how long I sat there.....soaking the beauty,listening to the whispers of the prayers carried by the winds with each flutter of the flags, unconcerned about the occasional noise of vehicle crossing by.<br />
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But if you can drag yourself away from the chortens and still want the view with some warm delicious coffee then drive up to the cafeteria a few metres ahead. They serve meals, beverages and sell souvenirs, and some of the 13 art forms of Bhutan. Yes the art do not come cheap. So I had to do with just admiring and dreaming of being rich one day.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiY4MvqhN9Kz7VNCteRfxXRVp6oZ__Z0BMC2sSkSGwPfzKIm4PpSs6J961CoULY8J5nnCDvyCSoK77oe14oG3t04NZPIWWl6TWaLrSdr5LQHd-7Td2X37qZxbfiL3xIZzSdp3sVsRQuvE/s1600/20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiY4MvqhN9Kz7VNCteRfxXRVp6oZ__Z0BMC2sSkSGwPfzKIm4PpSs6J961CoULY8J5nnCDvyCSoK77oe14oG3t04NZPIWWl6TWaLrSdr5LQHd-7Td2X37qZxbfiL3xIZzSdp3sVsRQuvE/s320/20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
While I was doing this <b>M </b>used the powerful telescope and<b> J</b> helped him to identify the peaks: Kang Bam 6526m, Gangchchenta 6840m, Masang Gang 7165m, Tsenda Gang 7100m, Teri Gang 7300m, Jejekangphu Gang 7100m, Zongphu Gang 7100m, Gangkhar Puensum 7541m.<br />
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I am not sure how accurate they were in spotting but I immersed myself in a book telling tales of spirits that inhabit the way to these passes and peaks. The cannibal demoness and various others who were subdued by Lama Drukpa Kunley or the divine madman.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeZRCK5roeL81V8WmyaDFsOIo5A8X111xasduJgwciKMiIL17oCxeCHbwnd6BdNrlYTTzz7Sh59jQaZMcRo7C-hHvvLrjsXBepqnF3WCsNm9tUICsWW3Piyc6nlaoSBXiTSmhyaplSoE/s1600/21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYeZRCK5roeL81V8WmyaDFsOIo5A8X111xasduJgwciKMiIL17oCxeCHbwnd6BdNrlYTTzz7Sh59jQaZMcRo7C-hHvvLrjsXBepqnF3WCsNm9tUICsWW3Piyc6nlaoSBXiTSmhyaplSoE/s640/21.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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We drive further, sometimes dozing off, sometimes watching the vegetation change to alder, cypress, fir and the daphne bush used to make handmade paper.<br />
When we descend to Thinleygang, the vegetation changes to cactus, oranges and even bamboo. The rocks and cliffs have the chants painted on it.<br />
We know we have to reach Bhumthang which was still many many hours far but we just get tempted to make a short visit to Punakha. The story says that Guru Rimpoche and foretold that a man named Namgyal would arrive at the hill that looked like and elephant and built this Dzong which is Bhutan's socond dzong.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2LnKnvyVrUvpEpj_pbOyxIEG4DdZG2ZK_uv9guIXIdukkVnaAJUCe-402smTvOKIu2f0UAVsmygPPhfBX4mG7waEZRZUHI96p1F9JA3YrXkpowPWk7h1015dWPJn_tje4zpo96HvVpCk/s1600/22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2LnKnvyVrUvpEpj_pbOyxIEG4DdZG2ZK_uv9guIXIdukkVnaAJUCe-402smTvOKIu2f0UAVsmygPPhfBX4mG7waEZRZUHI96p1F9JA3YrXkpowPWk7h1015dWPJn_tje4zpo96HvVpCk/s640/22.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
It requires a rather child like imagination to visualize the elephant shaped hill but at the beautiful confluence of the mother and father rivers Mo Chhu and Pho Chhu, the impressive dzong was built.<br />
Yes, believe me it is a dzong you will not mind to kill to see it, so marvellous is its beauty and architecture and so steeped it is in folklore and history and so priceless are the treasures it stores.<br />
But preparations of the wedding was going on in the dzong and none could tell how many hours we needed to wait to be allowed to go in. And I really didn't know whom to kill either with a knife or smile so with a sigh and a " next time" we move ahead to Wangdue.<br />
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The dzong and palace in Wangdue stands commandingly on a ridge next to Punak Chhu and surrounded by cactii to discourage invaders to climb the slopes. The celebration of Tsechu was in full swing and we join in the mirth.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bVBZQ5HKsTLQRIuOABa170qvoSyXb1k07E7DRmPdIfxo7SnH1eaRTmtY_ylPPLTDCz1OlEbR5U3lQs4GuaCSeEzNwcNp-l8r33wDBOwhN2Ej2nyObaPJV0R3yQ3wVcRFhS_n1qWibrg/s1600/16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bVBZQ5HKsTLQRIuOABa170qvoSyXb1k07E7DRmPdIfxo7SnH1eaRTmtY_ylPPLTDCz1OlEbR5U3lQs4GuaCSeEzNwcNp-l8r33wDBOwhN2Ej2nyObaPJV0R3yQ3wVcRFhS_n1qWibrg/s640/16.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4Wy2nIC7lYPGFO-nUgzF06N7hPAb5XzaxRH9Dm0GWIZy1KJMN91QwSm-SX_kGyWxOq0Ve-60EFZaS5dlgRKoz9Gh3LO7MXV_0y2wLZBXPgC4FaSrlXm0__vLcbMncliWL9nX7Jp1vUo/s1600/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo4Wy2nIC7lYPGFO-nUgzF06N7hPAb5XzaxRH9Dm0GWIZy1KJMN91QwSm-SX_kGyWxOq0Ve-60EFZaS5dlgRKoz9Gh3LO7MXV_0y2wLZBXPgC4FaSrlXm0__vLcbMncliWL9nX7Jp1vUo/s640/18.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The comedians offer a break in the Tsechu festival. They often carry an artificial phallus and also dance the legend of this Guru called " Mad man" who subdued demons and spirits. </td></tr>
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But the clock keeps reminding that Bumthang is still far and we drag our unwilling legs back to the Beast to drive across the Black Mountains via Pele La ( 3420m), crossing villages which gave a yawned look at us through the golden rays of sun and fields that shone and blushed golden like girls that come of age and know how to lure the admirers. And I do give in to the allurements that nature throws at every bend and corner. Yes, even in Paradise you can not stop yourself to yield into temptations.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUvDSpcjN5tcvgROSDH9kIQk-HdoAlUOrTVKjJfbInG-TT_ZOFAuZ6UFo2alBX0Kg-2r-JisfB7q6m3eKWFSGS7ywaU1LyjAY16drs7a_gtfaLGDJKzLCZu8e8WN34fAMLNboBORKeZw/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGUvDSpcjN5tcvgROSDH9kIQk-HdoAlUOrTVKjJfbInG-TT_ZOFAuZ6UFo2alBX0Kg-2r-JisfB7q6m3eKWFSGS7ywaU1LyjAY16drs7a_gtfaLGDJKzLCZu8e8WN34fAMLNboBORKeZw/s640/9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrGjnRxpUwhBwvdq8SEKXrLFEr-O0uZicF0edi8oAWOPRv5ra3YWgf7eXdcPuAj58G7kDsIx4UPxz1ngvPsN64AJXBWjGkVx2Hbw74qXHXTzV0jYOFfRg26Fb-pX3kN5yyKUqcr81cT4/s1600/23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrGjnRxpUwhBwvdq8SEKXrLFEr-O0uZicF0edi8oAWOPRv5ra3YWgf7eXdcPuAj58G7kDsIx4UPxz1ngvPsN64AJXBWjGkVx2Hbw74qXHXTzV0jYOFfRg26Fb-pX3kN5yyKUqcr81cT4/s640/23.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> But <b>J</b> and <b>M</b> prefer to give in to deep slumber, and Dorjee , our young driver and I keep our conversations going. Not that he was a wonderful story teller or even a garrulous person but I didn't want him to doze off as it had already started getting dark when from a view point I see the famous Trongsa Dzong and the Ta Dzong, which serves as a museum cum old time watch tower.<br />
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I pack my camera. I know more stops will delay us further and we had to reach Bumthang. The valley of Bumthang is supposed to be in the shape of bumpa, the vessel to keep the holy water and thang is field or flat land. Though Dorjee tells me that bum also means girl and the women of Bumthang are exceptionally beautiful. I was yet to find that out but if I went by the looks of the new queen who hails from Bumthang, I know he was not wrong.<br />
So we just drive, watching the numerous waterfalls, listening to Dorjee's occasional tale or his selection of music and then enjoying the moon when it comes up to flood the earth with it's mellow light.<br />
I know our hotel in Bumthang is nice and even if the spa might close by the time we reach, the beds will be warm and inviting. The thought brings a smile on my face. I realise that I had been smiling quite too often in this country called Bhutan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JnnO4fuFbGkX55_HRh3d0jy1VcqL8ybAntGIkmDUZRZxScqxrWfXDjLsVFMVccS4xClv3-f8It1roGHzBUSfBkXV5NWEdOLIn002aWke321niZgldMvlGpP0xRFIHmEqQxGO0b1H-eI/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5JnnO4fuFbGkX55_HRh3d0jy1VcqL8ybAntGIkmDUZRZxScqxrWfXDjLsVFMVccS4xClv3-f8It1roGHzBUSfBkXV5NWEdOLIn002aWke321niZgldMvlGpP0xRFIHmEqQxGO0b1H-eI/s640/5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time to sleep after an almost 11 hours journey ( breaks included in the time)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoteKlbzM-y_PG7NfEx1phaj5DBG6ql8HtildnQLqBF_DxYEC9K7sOfrxgESpaxrhL3e0uJz478wkfFM41xpJTBI8YfPf_sbNCeZRwztmXULA8Mm6g_nYWAWex1ujNbrP2MmZx8uCf8A/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqoteKlbzM-y_PG7NfEx1phaj5DBG6ql8HtildnQLqBF_DxYEC9K7sOfrxgESpaxrhL3e0uJz478wkfFM41xpJTBI8YfPf_sbNCeZRwztmXULA8Mm6g_nYWAWex1ujNbrP2MmZx8uCf8A/s640/6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dzong in Trongsa and the watch tower above......a must see. It is important for the royalty to act as the governor of Trongsa before he becomes King.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5hVJyDN2QV6Ioba4IEm2RxqiJHze_irirdtzBmC5OP5E_LCmW2XA5bWXghg9sP6sSEcLM0oLHz-TZzz1nn9voaTmMUHmzDQUKf-E8dWECBosCGI5vBUjVz2Hws6la1jq61HmRa16Nec/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyZoVi7dfjJE7WTQrflYju9XbttSaBYwhOj3L_qWUfH44ZJBYVwHXTXXeALCMpB3IxDBE3QaW0bZMdFSMrLi1nCNYnUz8zypk9jzA-rgyFzwl_XVXV3BPxDvj6ENVx7DslkiB5O7ElMM/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyZoVi7dfjJE7WTQrflYju9XbttSaBYwhOj3L_qWUfH44ZJBYVwHXTXXeALCMpB3IxDBE3QaW0bZMdFSMrLi1nCNYnUz8zypk9jzA-rgyFzwl_XVXV3BPxDvj6ENVx7DslkiB5O7ElMM/s640/8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5hVJyDN2QV6Ioba4IEm2RxqiJHze_irirdtzBmC5OP5E_LCmW2XA5bWXghg9sP6sSEcLM0oLHz-TZzz1nn9voaTmMUHmzDQUKf-E8dWECBosCGI5vBUjVz2Hws6la1jq61HmRa16Nec/s1600/7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5hVJyDN2QV6Ioba4IEm2RxqiJHze_irirdtzBmC5OP5E_LCmW2XA5bWXghg9sP6sSEcLM0oLHz-TZzz1nn9voaTmMUHmzDQUKf-E8dWECBosCGI5vBUjVz2Hws6la1jq61HmRa16Nec/s640/7.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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</div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-17320136178625197012011-10-07T20:46:00.099+05:302011-12-12T23:42:41.145+05:30Kuzu zangpo ( Bhutan Story 1)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
Yes <i>Kuzu zangpo,</i>but from which land? <br />
I would have loved to called it...from a Land of Nostalgia....but since I was really a child when the country was a temporary home, I actually have a few insignificant memories of the land. My parents could not join me in the trip and hence there is no one to help me hunt the bones of memories.<br />
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I will have to open a new page with this country which has earned a bounty of epithets. Clichéd they may sound for sure, but dissenters you will find rarely. So call it : The Last Shangri-la, The Mythical Shangri-la, The Last Place on the Roof of the World, Jewel of the Himalayas, Magical Kingdom, A Living Eden, Land of the Peaceful Thunder Dragon, Druk Yul.....<br />
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If you are of spiritual bend of mind, go ahead with: Lotus Garden of the Gods, Hidden Holy Land, Heaven on Earth…<br />
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And because my visit is during a time of the Royal Wedding, I am not too surprised when I hear tourists refer it as: Kingdom in the Sky, Kingdom in the Clouds, Last Buddhist Kingdom.....<br />
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My epithets revolve around my own personal experiences....and my grey cells or heart cells ( I am not sure what they are called ie the heart cells and I am certainly not talking of anatomy or physiology) need some time to form impressions.<br />
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But the cooing of the pigeons in a resort built in 1974 in Paro, during the 4th King's coronation........is the only sound I remember from my childhood. But it is only three days, I have just arrived.......<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOCTigJQ2Q1m4mQQFLVn5e_np9-FbLEPXz6y72xGDgpfTabMxJecfeJfCdHtmwUbb4lvcjaFyxrB8oF51FHVQN1J9LJZ7DwlhijYse7wpsFTueQMNIm6b46LfJNAoA7yBh8NCnmLmQLw/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAOCTigJQ2Q1m4mQQFLVn5e_np9-FbLEPXz6y72xGDgpfTabMxJecfeJfCdHtmwUbb4lvcjaFyxrB8oF51FHVQN1J9LJZ7DwlhijYse7wpsFTueQMNIm6b46LfJNAoA7yBh8NCnmLmQLw/s400/butan+5.10+2nd+008.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Living Eden </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcC2bJAHB0EfpRKyrb1Gzpo-bVlQXcsyPIS48rhkRsofU_CwaSyElAziRBxeRZHjRN2tZ2feiEv4ovSbs0mG3jGyI01wazsDKG8h3Ql2XB_NKTW9nx1EW3VXz0LCuJ93SYO3NOGg8xviE/s640/234.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( People watching the black hat dancers and the cham dances during the festival of Tsechu . )</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Paro.</b></span></div><br />
Altitude 2,280 m.<br />
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Early morning.<br />
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I look out of the window and see the hills and the clouds move languidly over them; as if they are hung in a completely erroneous time frame where the hustle and bustle of life has no meaning. My breath turns into water as it hits the window. <b>M</b>, my little travel companion enjoys sketching faces on the glass panes. Most of the time faces with funny smiles.<br />
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This time I am not alone in my travel. <b>J</b> and <b>M</b> are with me. <b>M</b> says we are <b>J.A.M</b> and yes he is correct; we are sometimes sweet, mild and flavoured, coloured like jam but there are also times when our different colours and flavours puts us into a sticky moods....<br />
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I remind myself that we are three people looking out for three different things from this travel. <b>M</b> is always curious and adventurous,<b> J</b> is the most level-headed and often seeks relaxation, and I, the <b>A</b>, is always seeking something....always sure what she does not want from people, from herself, from life but never sure what she wants.<br />
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But it’s time to put a break in my reverie and step out of the room.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2cajMOu_LNoTThGP0dkLHMw_7nvPwZ7nqxF3WKHgRD7DGUK_OGadLdwD4egSzTkS5vngl8sd9Lsr663ZP76x-P-eZPyJzGE9-4FuI0a71zJ7pvezuVINEci-3Z-xDOqs5_p_bXqG7bk/s1600/bhutan+098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2cajMOu_LNoTThGP0dkLHMw_7nvPwZ7nqxF3WKHgRD7DGUK_OGadLdwD4egSzTkS5vngl8sd9Lsr663ZP76x-P-eZPyJzGE9-4FuI0a71zJ7pvezuVINEci-3Z-xDOqs5_p_bXqG7bk/s320/bhutan+098.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The province or Dzongkhang of Paro can be called the rice bowl of the Kingdom – stretches of golden fields of the wonderful red rice, almost ready for the harvest, spreads unobstacled but say by a gurgling stream or the rolling mountains. The 176 big and smaller lhakhangs and the 427 choetens and of course the country’s only airport may break the unending golden view with colours and interests of their own.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSbADiR3z3PuCUNS3141iEX0f7B91BW7c0Vr96fDbpQ4Cyqw5RAlqFxSjEmyEGzoLeHwXO5OkMVs_YdP-CSNJ6f0PtmVWLR32Cn5P9zhyjjF3czvBdXKNdtx-W3P6Hg4hA7UmstQ9Evk/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHSbADiR3z3PuCUNS3141iEX0f7B91BW7c0Vr96fDbpQ4Cyqw5RAlqFxSjEmyEGzoLeHwXO5OkMVs_YdP-CSNJ6f0PtmVWLR32Cn5P9zhyjjF3czvBdXKNdtx-W3P6Hg4hA7UmstQ9Evk/s320/butan+5.10+2nd+048.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Paro Dzong or let me call it by its right name Rinchen Ping Dzong, the fortress on a heap of jewels, is not surprisingly our first stop. An impressive example of Bhutanese architecture, the dzong is across the Paro Chhu connected by the wooden bridge called Nyamai Zam and was built in 1644 by Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal and was used on numerous occasions to defend the Paro valley from invasions by Tibet. In fact there used to be old, gigantic catapults to throw the big boulders but it is Tsechu festival time and the music and dances performed in the dochey ( courtyard within the dzong) pulls us. The crowd and security also gently pushes us towards the performance area than explore the fortress which had survived the 1897 earthquake but damaged badly by the 1907 fire. The present structure is the rebuilt one and houses the statues of Sakyamuni, Guru Rimpoche and Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgya. Through the festivity filled air we notice the Utse, the central tower built by the first Penlop (governor of the region) and the many lhakhangs within the Dzong. And we notice the people, gathered as families, enjoying the dances, men wearing the best gho and the women with the colourful jackets and kira.....children alike. And with the colourful attire, all wearing the shy or big but certainly a genuine smile.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCd64Tu8Clw_ONDyLn6Ulb5bzJ5-P1w8a7lyA_WuxOo3qfVSwQqYDjLmsNVVtXmjwVmH9O7k0qbu4-BW7v3-Hfe10BHGrcTBFHXKoWZWFW_C2iHunPL851ScX7UuqReSGGPpDnYI_kVI/s1600/filmstrip2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmCd64Tu8Clw_ONDyLn6Ulb5bzJ5-P1w8a7lyA_WuxOo3qfVSwQqYDjLmsNVVtXmjwVmH9O7k0qbu4-BW7v3-Hfe10BHGrcTBFHXKoWZWFW_C2iHunPL851ScX7UuqReSGGPpDnYI_kVI/s640/filmstrip2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">( The various dances like the masked dance performed during the Tsechu festival.)</td></tr>
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The smile comes easily but the food takes time as we lunch on Norsaa Paa ( Sliced Beef cooked with green vegetables), Kewa Datshi ( Potato with Cheese), some Maaru ie curry made of spinach and the red rice. The food most of the time is prepared fresh and it is always better to place orders before hunger strikes....or keep some emergency food handy.<br />
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Tucked away in the soft folds of countryside hills is the ruins of Drugyal Dzong ( Victorious Fortress), which tells tales of invasions and victories and gives a clear view of Mount Jumolhari on clear days. A thick silence envelopes the place; broken only by the birds and the rustle of dry leaves beneath ones own feet.<br />
Kyichu Lhakhang, dating back to 7th century, has twin temples- the older built by Buddhist Tibetan King, Songsten Gampo, holding the left foot of the ogress whose body covers the whole of Bhutan and the eastern Tibet and the new one by Ashi Kesang Choedan Wangchuck, the queen Grandmother of Bhutan. I sit under the perennially fruiting orange tree and meditate on the statutes of Sakyamuni, and the 11 headed, 1000 handed Chenresig while <b>M</b> befriends the stray dogs that inhabit every street, house or dzong in Bhutan and <b>J</b> strolls by......<br />
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Images of prayer flags fluttering in the winds, spinning prayer wheels and the monks humming the chants lulls me to sleep.....<br />
Tomorrow should be a good day again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalj8ClOCPz4cDJvl_ak5yai7sBAhIAHbdRUHwmkwo8zOYREJzR6SSqB7n3AYNwmLoSX5EKPGRiwLoWx5-48w_nOiXggxjzcZ1GPN_VzkBGLUH_qVm0S102Jo9GVfyQeWgoZjaDaFzMLg/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalj8ClOCPz4cDJvl_ak5yai7sBAhIAHbdRUHwmkwo8zOYREJzR6SSqB7n3AYNwmLoSX5EKPGRiwLoWx5-48w_nOiXggxjzcZ1GPN_VzkBGLUH_qVm0S102Jo9GVfyQeWgoZjaDaFzMLg/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+001.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The red chillies...that spice up most of Bhutanese cuisine are seen drying up along the windows or roof tops. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wall painting of Guru Padmasambhabha and his tigress.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Murmuring a prayer by rotating a prayer wheel below the Drugyal Dzong. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgOGe0-GOE4RJcvljuaWjcQCWdfwImOGPJdg4Rb48d7xMBkrT4OYUNaUGnoUSjqo7xyBg4F9YuxVb_QIFX10gDkstt2ITj3T35BZBGSjA3_c8miWlfX9lp8XFyr3tvbesbtAK2onXEyI/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbgOGe0-GOE4RJcvljuaWjcQCWdfwImOGPJdg4Rb48d7xMBkrT4OYUNaUGnoUSjqo7xyBg4F9YuxVb_QIFX10gDkstt2ITj3T35BZBGSjA3_c8miWlfX9lp8XFyr3tvbesbtAK2onXEyI/s1600/butan+5.10+2nd+073.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Churpi- the dried cheese made of yak milk.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBK2TTV2Z5ugzBmsgaKGMINws8_MWfteuQ-s7m81OjY1mSVT9VbjeFAbUJTe6t20X5e8JiU3KMG9Dbc9BiVrSa6h2PmLOOtkmYGkXi931AoDT7J21qy4o_NidP-f2xAuDB68klhB7fpa0/s1600/bhutan1+324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBK2TTV2Z5ugzBmsgaKGMINws8_MWfteuQ-s7m81OjY1mSVT9VbjeFAbUJTe6t20X5e8JiU3KMG9Dbc9BiVrSa6h2PmLOOtkmYGkXi931AoDT7J21qy4o_NidP-f2xAuDB68klhB7fpa0/s1600/bhutan1+324.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rice fields in Paro.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-74818544026111613742011-10-02T00:16:00.005+05:302011-10-02T00:33:28.360+05:30<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> They say -<br />
<br />
At twilight,<br />
<br />
at that moment when the blue night falls on the world,<br />
<br />
the world becomes silent,<br />
<br />
silent for a moment,<br />
<br />
like the audience in rapture after the curtain drapes down the stage.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Perhaps it is this moment- the moment of complete silence<br />
<br />
when I hear a muffled voice say your name.<br />
<br />
Where are you?<br />
<br />
Who else is with you?<br />
<br />
Saying what?<br />
<br />
Are you busy?<br />
<br />
Making big endeavours in a still bigger world?<br />
<br />
Or are you thinking of me?<br />
<br />
Remembering the smaller moments of my small world?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Why does love come on me <br />
<br />
and the whole of me wants you in the evenings,<br />
<br />
when the hills recede into blur lines<br />
<br />
and the gloomy trees into erasing shadows?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Often I have sat in the steps<br />
<br />
Thinking,<br />
<br />
Watching the sun sway behind the purple clouds.<br />
<br />
Watching it display the wonders of melting into a darkness.<br />
<br />
Of dying.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The food has turned cold.<br />
<br />
You will be late-as always.<br />
<br />
When you will come you will be preoccupied-as ever.<br />
<br />
I know you will move into the room called “self”.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Where is the key to this room?<br />
<br />
Do I have it?<br />
<br />
Do you?<br />
<br />
Or is it lost?<br />
<br />
Lost and gone like the sun.<br />
<br />
And we?<br />
<br />
We will recede like wonderless, dark silhouettes<br />
<br />
Into our “selves”<br />
<br />
Into an oblivion<br />
<br />
Into death.</span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtM1vtFPqnmWJ-8pk6mCbzASm9htL7FL0Dh5TySz4-IeAzf0yX3i5AVjb04fLaTKQlaElhDc3xQ_-0Tq1yxi7UVM4akCxc5JSz86pdg_snmMWxGJLxr5wK9CblqSfuZoWZ8mGJr8rG3SQ/s1600/asdf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtM1vtFPqnmWJ-8pk6mCbzASm9htL7FL0Dh5TySz4-IeAzf0yX3i5AVjb04fLaTKQlaElhDc3xQ_-0Tq1yxi7UVM4akCxc5JSz86pdg_snmMWxGJLxr5wK9CblqSfuZoWZ8mGJr8rG3SQ/s400/asdf.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">( Poem Published in Assam Tribune as a series of poems titled Melancholy Moods and as a part of a write up in The Eclectic. )</span></div></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-88787287955064723272011-10-01T00:37:00.008+05:302011-10-01T10:53:19.642+05:30Words in the dust...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We had missed the beauty of that twilight.<br />
The twilight of mystical colours and earthly hopes.<br />
The raucous birds had hovered over the river Brahmaputra.<br />
And sunset had lingered on the sky like an old confused person.<br />
I had waited at the same place, alone and forlorn.<br />
And the dying light had wrapped around me, softly,<br />
like my favourite pashmina shawl... like a shroud.<br />
I saw the breathless wind stop its game and rest<br />
in the dry winter grasses and dusty benches.<br />
<br />
And sometimes the shadows of the evening trees whispered about some tale<br />
Where hearts had met in the fields drenched with magnesium moonlight.<br />
When love and desires had whirled and swirled in a hot sultry night.<br />
And a Midas hand had turned life into a dream and the dreams so alive.<br />
<br />
But tales like this fit only in a fictional story<br />
where things always end happily.<br />
For love, if that is its name, was crushed under the feet along with the dry leaves that day.<br />
And the promise of “walking together come what may” was left unsaid.<br />
And the defeated sun had yielded to a pall of thick darkness.<br />
<br />
You had already left, left to be someone else’s.<br />
And now I know I will miss the beauty of all the twilights. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgXJJG2ncaE77jFbUR4p_2pnxHFjadgq3DOx8kenPaBesBxXuKOpGdB2hHH-zeufZ5Xg9CSxwQZ9rsa3kycEssBwSKmb20mXK3AAvkQowjEjyZUizzzlwxxBCdZsDDlRFhieVjEWtIpg/s1600/ASD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgXJJG2ncaE77jFbUR4p_2pnxHFjadgq3DOx8kenPaBesBxXuKOpGdB2hHH-zeufZ5Xg9CSxwQZ9rsa3kycEssBwSKmb20mXK3AAvkQowjEjyZUizzzlwxxBCdZsDDlRFhieVjEWtIpg/s400/ASD.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Published in The Assam Tribune as a series of poems titled Melancholy Moods)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-8365990252536466142011-09-29T08:41:00.009+05:302011-09-29T23:34:41.480+05:30With Myself in Between<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like every night, tonight also I join the millions of insomniacs, each goaded by his own reasons towards a losing battle with sleep. And because I cannot sleep, I gaze at the sky; we both appear dark and desolate.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Darkness and desolation. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Often this cocktail makes us fall on our knees in supplication and whisper pleas; prayers. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like every night, tonight also I joined the thousands uttering prayers to their gods. I pray for word to come back to me. And since I have no "gods", I pray to Word itself this time. We had had an affair in the past. Though the word affair takes away the beauty and depth, certainly it was a beginning of a love affair. But only a beginning. Because to step further in the labyrinth called love was a daunting task for me. It demanded something which I was not ready to give, scared to give. The self.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Word stayed with me. Allowed me to to pour it on paper, exploit it as I willed, get it printed, read, earn from it.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But it sensed I had many corners of my self reserved from it. I was holding myself from it. The affair did not please it. Love thrives on love. Unsatisfied it walked away......and disappeared from my world. Did I sense this? Did I see the signs? Or I was too observed with just myself, taking it for granted.....Till I realized the absence from my life, the void in the heart, the dark, desolate heart. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Come back," I whisper the prayer. </span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Earlier I used to light an earthen lamp near the door. Sometimes even burn some incense, hoping the light and fragrance will help it find the way to my home. Get drawn like moths. I even planned to offer flowers, lure it by their attractive colours and promises of romance. Even decided to put some brass bells, wondering if the sounds of the shiny metals clinking with each other would shatter its annoyance,break its silence, its hurt and make Word come back to me.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Word come back to me."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Didn't they do this in the temples for the gods to grant their many boons? I was ready to do that for Word. But nothing happened. Like nothing happened for the past months and years. My silent screams only brought back more deafening silence.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had lost hope, given up the rituals. Even gave up the kneeling and putting the palms together.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now I just crouch or cuddle myself on the sofa and look at the dark desolate sky outside my window. I have given up my armours, the battle is lost anyway.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Words, come back to me."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Silence.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Caress me. Kiss me. Run your fingers on me, till they smoulder with desire. Let me explore your body too. Fill myself with your smell. I have shed my clothes. My Self. Make love to me."</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I used to roam the dark alleys of the night. The highways and byways. Thinking, perhaps like a hooker, Word, would be in some corner, ready to come for the night if I became the highest bidder, if the gifts promised were glittering and expensive enough.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But nah! It was not looking for those.</span></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">"Come back..I have nothing to give you now, just me, a tired, bruised, battered, hopeless me.....a naked me...."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I am not sure if I said this or if my thoughts simply strayed in the world between the livings and dreams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I heard someone say: </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Be patient and rest. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Rest. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">In mother’s womb, in the warmth of her full breasts. In the rocking cradle embraced with smell of milk and Johnson’s baby oil. In the creaking bed, in the sensuous rapture of a man. On the soft mattress with the velvety arm of a child around the neck. On the green field behind the hills. On the bare earth. On the rough-palm-mat. On the green bamboo bier lifted by four men. On the dried dung cake and woods at the burning ghat next to a murky river, in liberating fire. In the six feet earth in the ethereal plain, in eternal peace. SLEEP.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Uq0-QESZU8vH8OnfXPJrtVTxO5ocRqoImimw1N0XgzydQVao6bXQZ4BmWysPzVEYfdeUc4m7eBxvOvumJqcVBighCVFE4d4oC9hZXNWGEwwqGiJW5yeHL2FXpHtS4KLoPLpn6alV-Ws/s1600/anjali234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Uq0-QESZU8vH8OnfXPJrtVTxO5ocRqoImimw1N0XgzydQVao6bXQZ4BmWysPzVEYfdeUc4m7eBxvOvumJqcVBighCVFE4d4oC9hZXNWGEwwqGiJW5yeHL2FXpHtS4KLoPLpn6alV-Ws/s400/anjali234.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-865413806116298307.post-72576680004948769882011-09-27T00:34:00.010+05:302011-09-28T13:08:34.537+05:30September Nights<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Puwali gave him the orgasm that he wanted and then went to the window to gaze at the moon, on the sultry September night. She was thin and beautiful and one could make out through her thin white slip that she was yet to form full round breasts. The moon outside was creamy white and almost round, pouring a tender light on the earth. She thought of the fluid he had spilled on her stomach. At 45 he too looked round like the moon. Like the Big O. That is what he came to her for. Sex and smaller o, he had with others; within marriage, with the women he worked in his office. She neither asked him nor really cared to know.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">She gazed at the moon continuously, without a flutter of her eyelids. It was difficult to decipher her expression as she smoked the cigarette she had borrowed from him. She didn’t like smoking but she didn’t like doing many other things. A grey cloud veiled her eyes. But even then, despite this smoky veil, her eyes looked blank and still- like the lake I had seen in the Himalayas, and cold, freezing cold. It was not an expression you associate with 16 year olds. Young, lively, cheerful, carefree. Girls should be like this. Puwalis should be like this-like children- exuberating innocence, curiosity, a zest for life. But Puwali was different.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">She knew he will leave with no hug, no kisses, and no sweet nothings. Their “relationship” didn’t require these expressions of love. And she did not crave for these or anything from him. She heard the door shut softly after him. He was gone from her room. Then she heard another door creaking. He was now in his room. She let a breath out and started rotting:</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>30 days hath September,</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>April, June, and November.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>All the rest have 31</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>but February’s the shortest one.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>With 28 days most of the time,</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>until Leap Year gives us 29.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was still murmuring the poem when she went to the bathroom to have her shower. A ritual like shower. Nothing made her feel clean; loads of water, perfumed soap, ample doses of dettol and a scrubbing so rigorous that it left red marks on her body.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Did Lady Macbeth feel the same before she went insane? Before she killed herself?</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Still in the shower, she recited her own version of the poem.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Thirty days hath September,</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>All the rest I can't remember.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The calendar hangs on the wall;</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Why bother me with this at all?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her friends had laughed at her this creation and she had joined them but actually the poem disgusted her. She almost puked. There was a fire blazing within her, one she wished could devour her, clean her, purify her.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Will Ma ever know why her daughter is as she is? Why she is not like every other girl? Or does she really know that she is not like any other girl? Has she bothered to really know her? Or if she knows something is amiss, has she tried to find out? Ask? Talk? Puwali didn’t think so. Often she had tried to tell her Ma but feared the fingers that would point at her, the blame she would have to bear. Feared that she would be misunderstood and made to carry a cross heavier than she was carrying now.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">How can you be so ignorant? How can this happen only to you? What did you do to provoke him? Questions Ma may ask. Questions that had no answer.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Puwali changed into T-shirt and tracks. Drops of sweat fringed her forehead like dew droplets on the greens. Dewdrops are said to be the purest form of water created by the forces of nature in the silent womb of the night. The thought brought tears to Puwali’s eyes.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Puwali was not her name. He called her that. Her name was Dew- pure and serene. That was the expression she bore when she looked at her Ma, at her new world when she was born. And her Ma had said: My darling Dew.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">She was 6 or may be little over and had just got a bedroom of her own. She was sleeping, the deep, calm, innocent sleep which only a 6 year can sleep. He had crept into her room like a thief, lifted her mosquito-net.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Puwali, do you know of the story of Snow white, the beautiful princess or do you know the poem 30 days has September.......”</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">He was on her bed, removing her sheet, lifting her cotton slip. His one hand warm, sweaty, trembling but discovering her with intended force and the other on her mouth.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">The room was silent except for his movements. The room was silent except for her muffled, anguished groans. It was a cold night. Cold like death. She could feel the numbness all over her body. A cold numbness that penetrated into her spirits. The only thing that was warm, was the salty tears running down her cheeks, under the mosquito-net in that dark room. A crescent moon shone outside, a mute witness to the forces of the night which ruffled, tore, corrupted, molested, raped Dew.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ten autumns have passed. The moon often witnesses this gruesome act. Dew carries the burden of guilt, filth, shame with sealed mouth. The web around her has become more stifling, more complex with each silent day. Puwali is indifferent; seems indifferent as she gives him the orgasm he wants every time. She never forgets her bathing ritual though, her survival string, even while the Spider spins the web tight...choking tight.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her Ma cleans the room every day, after Dew leaves for school. She finds the same note glued to the mirror everyday: Ma, please help clean the web.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ma looks around the room. There are no cobwebs anywhere. She thinks her daughter is a clean-o-freak and takes the broom and sweeps everywhere.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every day.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_2140074964" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhtWfr124r1ih7oV18AwYMlDsa4Whml4lxwc9QEYxP7xlWsGjB28VpIZGpcgBETMzF79E9P8RCWCmaxNNhabn3d1vDq1xij467bw_mj1Gj373tDXOq9EDb9OAml8UZ-B20nTd9xE-bicE/s400/septnghtschair.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>( Published in The Eclectic in the September issue 2009) </i></span></div>Anjali Tirkeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337853406979079493noreply@blogger.com33