The Weather of Memory

above a nest a whisper of promise down below the gurgling of river somewhere, along infinite time a speck of knowledge where've all the wisdom gone?

One cold wintry morning, exactly at 8:50 AM, Chayphee drove his car inches behind a Toyota Land Cruiser. On such a cold morning, for neither was he a prophet nor an astrologer, it was hard for him to predict the moves and whims of the driver in front.  To add to that, at breathing intervals, he let out thick vapors from his mouth that he could literally count the water droplets at two thousand. Every droplet from these two thousand at every breath settled on the windshield that he had to defog it. Defogging poses a serious issue when the engine refuses to warm up during winter. But then, we will forget this for now. For the better part of his morning drive to the office, he completely lay at the mercy of his driving skills and humanlike non-prophetic travel of the machine ahead.  His blood pressure didn’t agree well with someone who drove in front, having neither the decency nor the respect to use the indicator lights. So, there he was, his right foot on t...

The glacial lakes far north in the country had all burst and the rivers across the Himalayas had turned pitch brown, and the atmosphere was adorned with the most powerful smells of soil and nature. Plant debris floated on the angry rivers as they knocked against each other producing the most hideous thuds.  Two large fishes had been washed ashore along the banks of Punatsang-chu right on to the grounds of Khuruthang after a flash flood.  The sky was cast with a depressing family of clouds. Lightning struck and thunders clapped, rolling loud into the gills of the fishes on the bank. Shortly, it was followed by rain. As the droplets severely fell on the leaves of the trees, they cut through them like knives and cooked the eyes of the two large fishes on Khuruthang ground.  One of the fishes had the strength and thus the wisdom to shout, “Cop15”, followed by the second fish’s, “Failure” and died painfully of acid rain. The year was 2080 the fishes had spoken for the f...

In   monsoon, the raindrops In rhythm And your feelings Flow Down the wayside puddle Straight into my thoughts At once wet And then, warm Feelings rhyme In raindrops You, me and This poetry in music Dissolve Down the wayside puddle…

It was an autumn’s Tuesday afternoon, dry and brown. The leaves had started falling in great numbers. The chirping birds had moved south. And the graduates of 2005 were moving their base to lunch, served outside the building, where the Graduate Orientation Program was being held. Our half hero, half loser noticed a creature, one among many, most unlikely and charming in the crowd: She was compared, but nothing that could be described by this pen, can define her beauty; On such a dry day, our hero had fallen in love for the first time, and there was not a soul undisturbed- everyone was hungry and bored from the graduate orientation program in progress. In a way of feeling great love, he blushed silently to those degrees that the effect of doma he was eating took charge of his pale counter without any delay, and he succumbed to one of those common diseases termed lovesickness. He ate little at lunch but talked at great lengths about the beauty he had then discovered, previously. One ...

It was raining outside, and the raindrops trickled down the windowpanes. She stared into the glass and her image looked back at her, piteously. “Far away”, she thought. And deep into her thoughts, she flew away, away to a land where everything was blissful. Colorful. There, she dreamt of a life of unhindered joy, where everyone was gentle and kind, where everyone did their business without poking each other’s noses. She had been staring into the glass for more than an hour when she came to reality, with a start. She checked the rooms. He was still not home. It was 10 PM already. Where in the world would he be at this hour, she wondered. Dead into the night, he was with his friends, drinking and making merry. Time to time, he took out a lump of dark matter nicely covered in plastic. He took a portion from it, pierced a needle into it, took a match, lighted it, and burned the portion to some degree. After that, he mixed the roasted matter with tobacco, rolled it up in a paper neatly, and...

It was when I was in class four that the year was 1992, and krackjack biscuits were all the rage that I fell in love with a girl. At the age of 12, one’s heart is still tender with your brain still knitting its lobes that you discover an extraordinary taste for biscuits. In 1992, krackjack biscuits went very well with our class four taste buds. Students with rich parents would buy krackjack biscuits and send them over to their best girls. And the best girls, in turn, would give them their best smiles that made the boys think they owned a fraction of the world, which was hardly true. Boy, that was some age! For the rich little guys, though… On a Tuesday afternoon with the sun high up in the sky, class four students were out in the open with the Dzongkha teacher telling tales of pancakes and old folks. I, for one, didn’t agree so well with the sun and the heat. I would go all red in the face and sweat to some acceptable degrees that I almost hated my Dzongkha teacher. A girl ...