Tibet: Past, Present and Future

In 1950s, we saw a dragon.
Red, fiery, real menacing one
Looming over future of Tibetans,
Go back! Go back! We pleaded.
But it turned a deaf ear.

And so did the dragon slayer from the West.

Ha! Ha! Ha! It laughed,
and spat balls of fire.
A push of its huge tail,
And monasteries came down crumbling.
Mercy: there was none in its eyes.

And so we dragged our feet across the Himalayas.

'Where are Tibetans heading to?'
'Does Tibet still matter to you?'
Answer me.
No answers; just bent heads.
But I know it, the answer.

The answers:
What is there in Tibet?
It is a discarded cause.
Let the Chinese have it.
We are off to Ari, the Golden Mountain.

Lamentation of a dying Buddhist

To the gods in heaven-
I feel my soul,
Deserting me; running away.
But of that I have no fear.
O! spirits just forgive me, 
For I won't be there.

For I won't be there,
First thing in the morning
To prostrate before you,
To clean the altar,
To offer bowls of purest water,
To burn an incense of soothing, sweet smell.

O! spirits forgive me.

A False Guru

See that. A man in maroon robe,
rosary hanging down from his wrist;
clean shaven head, beads of perspiration on it
descending the steps of a movie hall.

He jostles, shoves past people
His lips which once mumbled 
the sacred prayers: Om Mane 
                          Padme Hum
now it dances to a Hindi film's tune.

He swaggers as he walks
toward a parked sleek car
A white man had presented it, revering
'O! Reverend Lama, be my spiritual guide.' 

He puts on the mask of deceit back,
as the car came to halt before a monstrous gate
He looks at the rear view; makes sure 
he has left his true-self behind.

My God

In a moonlit night,
I walk on the cobblestone,
Circumambulating
A dome shaped structure.
It's the abode of my god;
My God lives here and
My God dies here.

When I see:
Flags of different colors dangling,
From it.
Flame of butter lamps as offerings,
Flickering.
Fragrant of burnt incenses,
Flourishing.
 

I feel My God lives here.

When I
Fold my hands,
Mumble a prayer,
Prostrate and crave.
My God breathes
His last breath.

When I
Move ahead,
Heedless to the moans
Of the wayside beggars.
I feel
My God dies here.

I feel My God dies here.

Old Men

Outside the afternoon sun beats down.
God has recessed.
Old men recessed too.
Swirling alcohol,
In a cheap glass in a tavern,
Old men talk incessantly about god;
God smiles
at the old men dreams of reaching Nirvana.

Outside the evening stars descend down
God shows up.
Old men too,
With red eyes,
Stinking breaths.
Whirling a finely carved prayer wheel,
In one hand and turning beads of rosary
On another hand, they hum like bees.
Old men chuckles
at a baby wrapped around a mother's weak embrace.

Outside the silvery moon illumines the path
God returns.
Old men too,
With staggers,
Bruised arms and knees.
Gnarling, barking street dogs
Sent shiver down their spines.
Urchins giggle
at the old men, returning back home.
 

Cycle

Everything goes around in cycle.
My father had told me once.

So,

I waited patiently
for the cycle to turn
in our (Tibetans) favour.

The wheels creaked noisily
as they lurched forward
in track with our dreams.

But gravels and pits
Unraveled tribulations
on the way faltering our dreams.

Everything goes around in cycle.
My father said to me once I remember.

So,

I wait hopefully
for the cycle to turn
in our (Tibetans) favour.

Waiting.. waiting..waiting hopefully.

A Heavy Price

A faulty prostration before
an ageing Lama
A black intertwined thread
around my head
Pellets of exotic preparation
down my throat
I was exalted; I had been blessed but
when everyone told me, then a boy
I position my folded hands the wrong way
while prostration
I was so deep sunken.
The thread coiled around,
making me gasp for air
The poisoned pellets surged
into my blood stream
I was dying,
my soul slowly drifted
with the incense smoke
and vanished
the Lama refused to perform the last rites
My soul, my mind wandered
for I was so deep sunken.

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