Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts

यहाँ फेरि मेला लागेको छ

11:16 AM
यहाँ फेरि मेला लागेको छ
चारैतिर रमाइलो छ
फेरि यहाँ मंच सजिंदै छ
आजकल पहाड़ हेर्दा साह्रै घमाइलो छ
फूटबल World Cup सक्यो त के भ
बजार त झण्डाहरूले नै भरिएको छ
हरियो,रातो,फूलहरू देखि टाटे-पांगरे सम्म
चुनावको चर्कोले यो ठाउँ चर्केको छ
यहाँ फेरि मेला लागेको छ।

यहाँ कैयौं भूमिपूत्रहरूले राता रात जन्म लिएको छ
पहिला झैं अस्तित्व जोगाउने आश्वासन फेरि दिएको छ
पहिला त्यही पैंतलामा कुल्चिनेहरूले दुई हात जोड़न थालेको छ
वाह! Innova, Bolero मा चड़ी हात हल्लाई हल्लाई 
अर्को पाँच वर्षको हिसाब कोर्न थालेको छ।
Code of Conduct को नाममा उत्पीड़न फेरि हुने भएको छ
ठूलेको बूढ़ी आमा खालीखुट्टै भोट हाल्न जाँदा फेरि रूने भएको छ
यहाँ फेरि मेला लाग्ने भएको छ।

अब भाषा बोल्नै नजान्नेहरू चिन्हारी जोगाउन भनी अघि बड़ेको छ
आफ्नो भाषा बोल्न जान्ने चाहिं 
नजानी नजानी पिंजराको सुगा झैं अर्काको भाषा रटेको रटेको छ
अभिनय र ढोंग चल्दैछ यहाँ डरलाग्दो
खै एउटा उम्मीदवार देखिनै मैले चै यहाँ भरलाग्दो
यहाँ अहिले असाधारण बिकास भएको छ
जंगल बस्नेहरू सिद्धै Skype बाट  Video Chat गर्न थालेको छ
वाह कस्तो दामी Network,यहाँ फेरि मेला लाग्न थालेको छ।


आफ्नो निधारमा भाग्य भन्दा बेसी पार्टी कै टिका लगाउँछन्
कुनै दृष्टि नभएको नेतृत्वले खै कसरी जनतालाई जगाउँछन्
कोही भन्छन् छुट्टै राज्यको Agenda,
कोही Development गर्न हिंड़ेको 
तर पहाड़मा जुनै जोगी आए पनि कानै चिरेको
अब फेरि हातका सफा पन्जामा कालो रंग पोत्ने दिन आएको छ
यति वर्ष खपेका पीर मर्माहरू याद गरी सठिक मान्छे रोज्ने समय आएको छ
यी पाँच वर्ष कटमेरो भै बसेको फल आज बल्ल पाकेको छ
यहाँ फेरि मेला लाग्ने भएको छ,यहाँ फेरि मेला लागेको छ।।
       
(मान्छे चिनौं,खसी किनौं)


Pramod Khadka

_ म पनी जाने Rising Star*

6:37 AM

लगातार 104 दिने पहाड बन्द भएपछि
13 जना भगत सिगं सहिद भएपछि
हजारौ क्रान्तिकारी जेल गएपछि
गोर्खाल्याण्डका आवाजहरू भूमिगत् भए पछि
"म पनी जाने Rising Star*,

ऐतिहासिक बन्द बेअर्थ फिर्ता लिएपछि
क्रान्ती थन्काएर शान्ति रोजे पछि
उन्मुक्ति संग डेभ्लपमेन्ट साटे पछि
सहिद परिवारले सहिदको ज्याला पाए पछि
'म पनी जाने Rising Star*

विभिषणहरू लकां गए पछि
सत्तामोहले दासत्व श्विकारे पछि
उर्दिवालाहरूको तन्खा र पदोन्नती भएपछि
मरौ घरमा उत्सव राखे पछि
_म पनी जाने Rising Star*

(Note- मलाई नाँच्न र गाउँन त त्यती आउँदै तै पनी Rising Star* को खिताब जित्न कवि अगमसिंह गिरी द्वारा रचित तथा स्व अम्बर गुरूङको सगींत र स्वर भएको यो गीत अभ्यास गर्दैछु।

'गीतको बोल यस्तो छ_

हो, नौ लाख तर उदाए, धर्तीको आकाश हाँसेछ।
शरद लाग्यो बनमा, फुलले प्रीति गाँसेछ।
नजली यहाँ झिलिली, मनको तारा निभेछ।
गुराँस फुल्यो पहाडमा, मनको फुल झरेछ।
नसम्झ आज नेपाली, सन्चोले यहाँ बाँचेको।
काँडा कै माझ पहाडी, छैन र कहाँ हाँसेको…२।
सुनको सपना आँसुमा, किन हो बाँधील्यायौ नि।
घरको माया बिर्सेर, किन पो यहाँ आयौ नि…२।

हो, मुटुको रगत एउटै हो, पिरको वह बेग्लै छ।
हामीलाई यहाँ चिन्यौ कि, मनको चोट बेग्लै छ।
नियाली हेर हामीलाई, भिजेको छैन परेला।
आँसुले गह भिजाए, अरुले निर्धा सम्झेला।
बुझ्छ र कस्ले रोएको मुटुमा काँडा लिएर।
अरुका सारमा हाँसेको, आँसुका घुट्का पिएर…२।
पहाडी फुल नफक्री, किन हो चुँडिल्यायौ नि।
मनको आगो निभाउन, किन पो यहाँ आयो नि…२।

-(हार्दीक श्रद्दा सुमन, स्व कवि अगमसिंह गिरी, स्वर्गीय अम्बर गुरुङ, अनी गोर्खाल्याण्ड आन्दोलनमा होमिएका सहिदहरू प्रति।)

-एक जातिय कलाकार

प्यारी दिदी ममता..... !!

9:35 AM
Writes: Dipendra Dipzo Khati

हजुर नै ममताको खानी
हजुर नै हाम्रो भूमिको रानी
खै के चड़ाऊँ उपहार हजुरलाई
यै चिया मजदुरको भोको पेट मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

सेतो सारीमा तँपाईलाई देख्दा
मदर टेरेसा नै बिर्सिन्छु
खै के चड़ाऊँ भेटी हजुरलाई
यै डुवर्समा भोकले मरेको लाश मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

हजुर नै हाम्रो मार्गदर्शक
हजुर नै हाम्रो रक्षक
खै के दिऊँ हजुरलाई गुरु दक्षिणा
यै भात्री कटास् मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

हजुर नै हाम्रो पालनहार
हजुर नै हाम्रो अन्नदाता
खै के चड़ाऊँ लगान हजुरलाई
यै काम नलागेको डिग्री मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !
प्यारी दिदी ममता
प्यारी दिदी ममता
हजुर नै हाम्रो मालिक धनी
हजुर नै हाम्रो जीउनी
खै के अर्पण गरूँ हजुरलाई
यै पानी चुहुने छानो र घोप्टो परेको मानो मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

दर्शन नै काफी छ हजुरको यहाँ
'पहाड़ हाँस्छे ' गीत गाउनलाई
अहोभाग्य हुने थियो मेरो
हजुरको हातको रोटीको टुक्रा पाऊँनलाई
धेरै सकिन हजुर, यै आत्मासम्मान मात्र छ
त्यै नै सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

मुर्ख थिए मेरा बाऊ बाजे
खोजी हिँड़े माटो र मान
कायर थिए ती शहीदहरू
ब्यर्थै गुमाए ज्यान
यै साँग्लोमा बाँधिएको प्राण मात्र छ
त्यै पनि सुम्पिए ! तोफा कबुल करो.... !

चौरास्ताको मृत्यु

7:30 PM
 चौरास्ताको मृत्यु

धेरै बर्ष अघाडि देखि
स्वतन्त्रता खोज्दै यो चौरास्ता पनि
कसैको प्रतिक्षा गर्दा गर्दै
नयनहरू थाकी सक्यो कि
तरै पनि आखाँहरूमा
नयाँ आशाहरू लिएर
हरेक बिहान फेरी कसैको प्रतिक्षामा
नयन टोलाई रहेछ
आज सम्म पनि



सायद मनै थामेर
न्यानो घामको प्रतिक्षामा
हरेक चिसो कुहिरो भित्र
मनमा कुराहरू खेलाईरहेछ
आज चौरास्ता कै छेउ कुना टोक्दै र च्यात्दै
चौरास्ता खाने मान्छे पनि हाम्रै पो हरे
भन्छ मलाई चौतास्ताको कुहुरीले
चौरास्तालाई खाई सक्यो हेर्दा हेर्दै ।
कसैले चौरास्तालाई खोज्दै त
चौरास्ताले कसैलाई खोज्दै
हर दिन पाईलाहरूका छाप
चौरास्ता माथि नै निरन्तर
तरै पनि -
 चौरास्ताको मृत्यु
 चौरास्ताको मृत्यु

चौरास्ता कै मान्छेहरू
हरेक दिन नोलौ अनुहारहरू लिएर
आफ्नै परिचय खोज्दै
चौरास्तामा नै छटपटाई रहेछ
तरै पनि -

चौरास्ता कै आफन्तहरू
हरेक दिन चौबाटोमा उभिएर
लक्ष्य खोजिरहेछ ...।
मलाई लाग्छ
मान्छेकै भीडहरूमा
आज चौरास्ताको मृत्यु भईरहेछ
हो साच्चै चौरास्ताको मृत्यु ।।


Via Gideon Gorkha Gorkhaland 


THE BRAVE GORKHAS IN INDIA

11:33 AM

By Poet Palden Gyamtsho Dukpa

Where the mind is without fear
And the head held high
Gorkhas are there always ready to die

For our country so beautiful and
For our country of contrast
Gorkhas are here for now till last

For our country so true and
For our country so dear
Gorkhas are here for one and all

Let us all join with Gorkhas so brave
Who can fight for his mother
To dig his own grave

For our country so vast and
For our country so great
Gorkhas are here for ever more

Still fighting not just for country
But still fighting for land
Upon which our Gorkhas need to stand

With mind without fear and
To hold the head high
Gorkhas are here till do or die.




GORKHA- VALOUR IN MY VEIN

8:28 PM
By-Kryptonite © 

Ink in my pen,
Twinkles the Gorkha name.
Bravest of the braves is our fame.
Our Identity is in mayhem.

Turn the pages of history,
Blood shed,Valour to victory.
Unlock the fierced mystery.
Gained no liberty in our own country.

Standing high,
In the amidst of cloud.
Honour the martyrdom shroud.
All the sacrifices has drowned.

Politicians have to spew.
Happy days to come true.
WILL to CHANGE is in you.
Have FAITH untill bleeds blue.
Aayoo Gorkhali by Gyanuraja97
Aayoo Gorkhali by Gyanuraja97

'Sankee Samay' Pradip Lohagan’s first anthology released

11:35 AM
Kalimpong : Young Gorkha poet Pradip Lohagan’s first anthology “Sankee Samay” was released  on Sunday in Kalimpong. Noted poets Manoj Bogati, Ming Lawang and Raja Puniyani officially released the book at a function organized at Kalimpong Girl Sr. Sec School auditorium by the Kalimpong Charitra Publication and Sadak Kavita Samuha. The book is published by Yamburi Book Point, Kathmandu.

Release of Pradip Lohagan’s first anthology “Sankee Samay” in Kalimpong on Sunday.
Release of Pradip Lohagan’s first anthology
“Sankee Samay” in Kalimpong on Sunday.
Manoj Bogati in his address described the book as a progressive and factual representation of words against the system. He said the poems in Lohagun’s book talks about social changes and development. “Sankee Samay is an anthology for the new generation as it trends along the current times and has set a starting milestone for the genre,” Bogati added. Poet Raja Puniyani spoke in length about current Indian Nepali writing style and its attributes.

The function also saw poem recitals by noted poets, including Raja Puniyani and Sudhir Chettri along with other young poets Chewang Yonzon, DK Vaibha, Karna Birha, Ashadeep Rai and Vinod Sharma. The programme also had the presence of Kalimpong MLA Dr. Harka Bahadur Chettri, the GTF chairman Dr. Anos Das Pradhan, former Kalimpong College principle Kumar Chettri, advocate Amar Lama, poet Sanumit Rai, writer Sanjay Bisht, Kalimpong Municipality Chairman Jayan Lepcha and litterateur Tara Lohar, along with various other literature enthusiasts.

Source: EOI

Nima Sherpa's ‘Gaon Ko Katha’ Nepali audio-visual poem released

11:19 AM
Gorkha youth poet Nima Sherpa has released  Nepali audio-visual poem  ‘Gaon Ko Katha’ on monday.
First time in Darjeeling, the idea to document poems in an audio-visual format has been introduced in the field of Nepali poetry. Gorkha youth poet Nima Sherpa's endeavor of his visual poem, 'Gaon ko katha,' (village story) is a poem where the poet expresses his thoughts on the changing culture of the village, then and now.
 Darjeeling Press Guild
Darjeeling Press Guild
He always knew he had the poet’s streak in him, but circumstances had driven him to showcase his talent on a different platform. However, his dream has now come true as youth poet Nima Sherpa on Monday released his ‘Gaon Ko Katha’, an audio-visual poem.

The idea to “create” poetry is an innovative one for the hills, one that could perhaps carve the way for others to follow suit. But Nima’s achievement, gained through hard work and dedication, is not without its critics, with the principal one being none other than his father who labours in his field from dawn to dusk.

“We used to shoot for the ‘poetry’ even late at night in order to perfectly blend my poem with the visual presentation, which annoyed my father. He even called me mad,” Nima told the audience comprising poets, writers, journalists and students.

‘Gaon Ko Katha’ was presented by the Darjeeling Press Guild in collaboration with the Mass Communication and Journalism Department of St Joseph’s College, Darjeeling.

Nima is a lecturer at the Ghoom-Jorebungalow Degree College and writing poetry in innovative ways is a ‘mantra’ he wants budding talents to inculcate.

“I interacted with several poets in Nepal and came to know that only a few of them had ever tried writing poetry using audio and still pictures. That was when it struck me to do something different, and the idea of a visual format was born,” he said, while giving credit to the music arranger and his cameraman friends, who had toiled even harder to create the ‘piece’ Nima had envisaged.

“Initially I was skeptical about how the work would come out. I was not sure about how synchronising the music and visuals of the village with my words would go. But all credit to the music arranger and cameramen for the end-product,” said an elated Nima, who shot all the visuals at his native Rampuria village in Takdah.

The poet also unveiled a short selection of poems from his ‘Kurup Phool Ko Gandh’, which was released in Nepal a week ago and will soon be available in the Darjeeling hills.

The audience was also treated to a 40-minute documentary titled ‘Paper Boat’ created by the students of the mass communication department. This was followed by poetry recitals by five poets invited especially for the programme.

Source: EOI

Darjeeling Artist youth returns home with ‘dream’ project -'Mero euta sapana cha'

9:08 AM
VIVEK CHHETRI
The lush green fields of Rampuria forest village, about 25km from Darjeeling turned into a natural canvass earlier this month as villagers came together to express their creativity through farming.
The coriander art patch in Rampuria village, Darjeeling. Picture by Suman Tamang
The coriander art patch in Rampuria village, Darjeeling. Picture by Suman Tamang
Wangdi Sherpa, a 33-year-old artist from Rampuria who is now based in Vadodara, Gujarat, has started the unique project in the village where farmers were encouraged to participate in the “I have a dream,” project, which in Nepali translates to “Mero euta sapana cha.

Sherpa encouraged the farmers to grow coriander, which when fully grown has turned into a relief work, its design spelling out the words “Mero euta sapana cha.”

“Art has always been confined to galleries in these parts of the world. Being born in this village, I have seen that many of my villagers are creative but they cannot express their creativity. I wanted to give back something to my friends from my village and make them feel happy and break the monotony of farming,” Sherpa said.

Sherpa studied fine arts at Santiniketan before completing his masters in fine arts from MS University of Baroda. He is currently freelancing in art galleries in Vadodara.

The villagers immediately took a liking to Sherpa’s project.

“I had initially thought that even if five to six farmers showed interest, I would be more than happy. We held six meetings with the farmers and finally we had 21 farmers involved in the project. There was excitement for they were doing something creative,” Sherpa said.

The project started on April 16, 2014, after L.B. Rawat, a local resident, agreed to part with a portion of his land to grow coriander on a 3ft x 27ft space.

“We probably spent only about Rs 2,000 as the entire village participated in this project. We are happy with the end result,” Sherpa said.

He said he was in touch with a Canada-based non-profit charitable organisation, The Vancouver Biennale, to try and showcase a documentary of their project during one of their exhibitions.

“I am in touch with them and am hoping for the best. If the documentary is shown, it will bring recognition to my village. I also plan to screen the documentary in art galleries in Mumbai and Delhi,” Sherpa said.

The coriander leaves,when fully grown, were plucked in early. “We had sown in half a kilogram of coriander seeds. The leaves were not for sale and were given to the villagers for their own consumption,” Sherpa said, adding that the project was aimed at celebrating creativity more than looking at commercial interest.

On the day the leaves were plucked, the residents organised a poetry recitation programme in the village.

The programme titled “Barima Kavita” or poetry in the farmland, was attended by budding poets Nima Sherpa, Saran Muskan, Bhupendra Subba, Binod Pradhan, Asish Rai and Pradip Lohagun.

Muskan said: “We have been reciting poetry in various places but it was a different feeling to recite a poem near a coriander field. We, too, are trying to bring poetry to the common people and this project by Sherpa also reflects our ideas.”

Sherpa now plans to invite artists from across the globe to his village for an art camp in the fields in October this year.

“I am also planning to organise a workshop and invite school children to participate in the event,” he said.

Sherpa and the local villagers believe that if they can come up with such unique ideas, they can make the village an attractive tourist destination in the long run by starting homestays.

Nima Sherpa, a resident of Rampuria who is a lecturer at Ghoom-Jorebunglow Degree College and was involved with the project, said: “Our long-term goal is to promote village tourism in the area by encouraging people to come up with homestays. We need to create a unique space so that the village can stand out to be different in its activities.”

The villagers are predominantly farmers who grow maize, cabbage, potatoes, carrots, cardamom and ginger. Some of the farmers have also set up flower nurseries.

L.B. Rawat, one of the farmers, said: “Everyone in the village was excited about the project as it has brought about something new in their lives. Most of the educated youths have left the village but now many are returning and brining in new concepts to the village. This new concept made us think we can do something different and this feeling, I think, can help us think differently. We were too stuck with our lives and we had stopped thinking.”

Nima said: “We can do unique activities in the village and connect with global initiatives, even if it is about celebrating creativity. We can create a unique brand and identity for the village. It will, however, have to be a sustained effort.”

The website of The Vancouver Biennale says its is a non-profit charitable organisation that celebrates art in public spaces. “Our exhibitions are unique in the world in that we feature sculpture, new media, film, music and dance.” The website states the project is inspired by Martin Luther King’s famous speech “I have a dream”.

The Biennale has a documentary video section in its website where documentaries of such project across the globe are featured. Sherpa, who is making a documentary on the project, is hopeful it will feature not just on the website but would be shown during events.

Source: Telegraph

Indo-Nepal poets' meet in Kalimpong

8:20 AM
Kalimpong- The Devkota-Lusun Prajgya Pratisthan today held the Indo-Nepal poets meet at Shyama Devi Hall in Kalimpong. A total of 14 poets from Nepal along with a number Indian Nepali poets recited their poems during the meet. Pratisthan president Ninu Chapagai welcomed the poets from Nepal, including Krishna Prasai, Mahesg Poudyal, Bhupin Hem Prabhash Rawat, Seema Aabahas, Jyoti Jungle, Pratik Dhakal, Hemendra Biswas, Hemant Yatri and Harigobind Luitel.

Dr. HB Chettri at the Indo-Nepal poets' meet in Kalimpong on Saturday.
Dr. HB Chettri at the Indo-Nepal poets' meet in
Kalimpong on Saturday.
Kalimpong MLA Dr. HB Chettri was also present in the meet today. Having kept his writing passion on the shelves due to his political commitment, Dr. Chettri said he has returned back to writing. “It is important to conduct such interactive programme between writers from India and Bhutan and I hope to attend more such programmes in the future,” he added. Dr. Chettri also recited one of his poems.

Chapagai said only the poets who are true to themselves will become immortal through their writing. “A real poet is a real human being and only he has true dreams. It is the responsibility of every poet to keep the passion alive and help the upliftment of Nepali literature,” he stated. He observed poets from both the countries write in the same language and the expressions are similar. Therefore more programmes like these between the countries should be given priority and said his organisation has always shown such commitments and continue in the future.

Source: EOI

अो! दार्जिलिङ

4:08 PM
अो! दार्जिलिङ तिमीलाई फेरि
अो! दार्जिलिङ
अो! दार्जिलिङ 
एउटा संङ्कट आइपर्दैछ'रे,
तल मधेसबाट साँप नचाउने,
जादु देखाउनेहरु पहाड आउदैछन्'रे।
कति लुट्ने हुन यो पहाडमा मधेसीले
कहिले दुईचारवटा साँप ल्याउछन्,
नचाउछन् अनि अौठी बुट्टि बेच्छन्
अनि भन्छन् शनि, राहु, केतु छन्'रे
वरिपरि दुश्मनै दुश्मन पनि।
दिन्छन् रंगी बिरंगी बुट्टि अनि
थरीथरीका अौठीं।
कहिले कालो कपडाले ढाकेर
जीउँदै मान्छेको फोक्सो मुटु देखाउछन्
जादूको छडी लिएर रकम लुट्छन।
हिजोआज पहाडे दलालहरु
मधेसी ज्ञान लिन कलकत्तातिर धाउदैछन्'रे।
टुनामुना सिकी अब कति कुर्लने हुन,
तन्त्रमन्त्रले सबैलाई कति मुग्ध पार्ने हुन।
दुईचार दिन पहाडको बुद्धिमा मन्त्र छर्छन
गिदी र जिब्रो बटुल्छन पहाडबाट दलालहरु
अनि बेच्छन् तिनै कलकत्तालाई।
होसियार!
तिम्रा जादूसर्कस, टुनामुना अब
धेरै देखियो चाहिन्दैन- भनिदिउँ।
तर के गर्ने…!
हेर, पहाडका दलालहरु
युवाहरूको पाखुरामा बुट्टी बानी दिन्छन्
अनि दिन्छन् त्यो छडी जादूको,
र भन्छन् दलालहरु निस्फिक्री,
म गोर्खाहरुको बाउ हो।

एउटा बिबादास्पद status, फेब्रुअरी०१४

Source: E-man Bantawa Rai


पत्ति देखि चिया सम्म

3:47 PM
कलिला हरिया मुनाहरुलाई
पत्ति देखि चिया सम्म
पत्ति देखि चिया सम्म
औँलाले चुड़ाँएर
टोक्री भरि भर्छन आशा
मेरी आमाहरु।
ती... आशाका मुनाहरुलाई
नापतौल गरेर
हिसाब किताब राख्न अघि आऊँछन
मेरा ठेकेदार काका-बड़ाहरु।
आफ्नो आमाहरुले मेहेनतको पसिना चुहाउँदै
कोषिशका दस नङ्ग्रा खियाउँदै
संग्रह गरेका आशारुपि पत्तिहरुलाई
तयार हुन्छन मेरा दाज्युहरु
कारखानामा सुरक्षीत पुर्याउन।
जहाँ खड़ा हुन्छन जानकार जीवन
ती आशाका मुनाहरुलाई
खण्ड- खण्डमा बिभाजित गनं
म्यानेजर साहब भएर।
घानीमा पिसिएर
मेरी आमाहरुका
मेहेनत र पसिना भरिएका
आशाका कलिला मुनाहरु
अन्त्यमा मालिकवर्गको
कपमा भरिन्छ
नाफाका चियाको चुस्कि बन्नलाई.....

Source : Sameer Sewa

'Darjeeling' a poem By Joe Cole

10:03 AM
Darjeeling


Darjeeling By Joe Cole
Joe Cole
Beautiful Darjeeling in West Bengal I heard you call my name.
Like a siren you have lured me to your slopes and sun filled glades.
How could I resist the urge to come and join you there.
To be assailed by your beauty, smell your perfumed air.

I sit here in your paradise, from my pen the words do flow.
I sit and write of what I see and hear and watch the poem grow.
I know now and the meanings clear. Darjeeling the abode of God.
For only from his mighty hand could such a place be forged.

And so I sit and write of the glory that I see
And as I wonder at the glories another sits with me.
I cannot leave this beauty but alas I have no choice.
I would sing of beautiful Darjeeling but I do not have the voice...

By Joe Cole

Source:hellopoetry.com

जनता दरबार लाग्यो रे

12:28 AM
जनता दरबार लाग्यो रे
हो साँचै??
कता लाग्यो त दरबार
सडकमा??
सरकारी कार्यलयमा??
होइन हजुर यो जनता दरबार होइन
यो त हो दलीय कार्यक्रम
दलको कार्यलयमा भएको
नीतिगत बिरोधी जानै नसक्ने
डर छ
समस्या भन्नु गए झण्डा पक्डाउने
पक्कै यो जनता दरबार होइन
यो त हो दलीय कार्यक्रम
दल छोडी गएको लोभिहरुलाई नोट देखाई तान्ने
हाम्रो दल नै ठुलो भन्दै फोटो खिचाउने
होइन हजुर यो पटक्कै होइन जनता दरबार
यो त ढटुवाको देखौटी हो नाटककारको नाटक हजार!!!



Source:Samir Lama Gorkha

गोर्खाल्याण्डको मानचित्र कोर्न बसे

12:17 AM

गोर्खाल्याण्डको मानचित्र कोर्न बसे
कोरे पनि
हाम्रो सपना हाम्रो राज्य
सुन्दर सुसज्जित पहाडको हरियाली
दुअर्स-समतलको खुशियाली
के गोर्खा के कोचे मेचे
के बंगाली के मारवाडी
के लेप्चा के बोडो के राजबंशी
गोर्खाल्याण्ड सबैको सुनौलो सपनी
सपनी एक तर राजनीतिमा अल्झिएको
गोर्खाको बुइ चडी गुण्डा नेताले अन्यलाई भुलेको
बिकाशको कुरा गरि मानचित्र घटाएको
अन्य जाती त दुश्मन बनायो नै
अहिले गोर्खा जाति पनि हेर फुटाएको
मानचित्र कोरे मानचित्र मेटाए
सम्पूर्ण छैन यो मानचित्र अब
धुर्त नेताले मर्यादा बेची गोर्खाल्याण्ड तुहाएको!!!!
गोर्खाल्याण्ड होइन मात्र गोर्खाको
मांग होइन यो मात्र तीन महकुमाको
गोर्खाल्याण्ड होइन चिनारी अस्मित्ता बेच्नेको
यो हो स्वाभिमान अखण्ड भारतको!!!!!

Source : Samir Lama Gorkha

Why should I be afraid?

9:29 PM
I was born during the great agitation of 1984
Why should I be afraid?
Why should I be afraid?
In our village dispensary
Where my grandfather died of diplegia
And the loss of memory.
My father was a rebel they say,
He had gone hiding on that day
For our so called democratic government
Was trying to suppress our just voices
In their own meanest way.
I did not see my father’s face,
His black and white picture
In the family album is all what I know of him.
Though they say my eyes resemble my mother,
I did look like him with long eye lashes, bulging chin,
Muscular limbs and broad shoulder.
Of my mother too I have a vague memory,
The warmth of her love hardly relished my soul
She too went away when I was just a toddler.
The old, sick grandma was all there for me
Who worked so hard to feed my hunger
For hours in the nearby Tea factory.

I spent most of my childhood all alone
Playing outside our tin roofed house
Watching the distant snow clad mountain,
And envying the freedom of the swallows
Flying aimlessly into the pure air
While the silence of the mountain was broken
By the whistle of our ages old toy train.

I did go to the school; our village primary school
Where everything, even the English was taught in vernacular.
And though the students were less and teacher the more
No motes of education touched me there.
Other than for studies,
My school was of great importance,
People used to gather now and then, when
The long boring speeches were delivered there.
And the next day when school reopened
Hours it took for us to clean the class rooms
And collect papers of strange symbols lying everywhere.
I heard them saying one day,
‘Preserve our language and promote the culture.’
But in truth their own words meant nothing to them
For their sons and daughters were enrolled
In English medium schools far-far away.

I learnt less in the school
And more from my grandmother at home.
Though she knew not how to read and write
She showered me with the overflowing wisdom
Of Ramayana and Mahabharata every night.

But one day she too went away to the fairy land
Now leaving me all alone.
They found her sleeping in the nearby tea garden
With ‘doko’ and ‘namlo’ by her side.
That was the first and the last time fear touched
My deepest being for I was too afraid
And confused to tread the road ahead.

It was when she passed away that I realized
My house had nothing but a rusty trunk,
Containing a ‘Maadal’,a ‘Sirupate Khukuri’,
Red ‘Chaubandi-Cholo’neatly muffling a‘poteah,’
A box of ‘Sindoor,’ ‘Jhumka’ and a‘Bulaki.’

Seeing these things, at once I broke down,
My instincts told me to whom they once belonged.
Trembling hands I ran through the ‘Khukuri' and Maadal,’
And the ‘Chaubandi- Cholo’ that smelt strange yet so familiar,
Punctured my eyes with abounding tears.

The dusty photo album
I opened with haste
Longing for the motherly love.
But there I saw my father’s face
And recalled the words grandmother once said,
“You are a martyr’s son,
A rebel’s blood flows into your veins;
Your father denied all forms of slavery and died fighting
Don’t you ever be afraid!”

I guess I was just thirteen at that time
But I refused to live on other’s charity.
I chose to help myself and forge ahead
And to live a life of dignity.

Three long years I worked in a novitiate,
Where there were no signs of God but of the priests.
They speak of Love and Forgiveness
Which they themselves never practice.
Pity I felt for those poor novices
They pay the costliest price,
Pushed in these places when in their teens
Crushing their youth in the name of God’s service.
And suppressing the greatest of all longings,
The desire to touch and to be touched,
The courage to question the unknown,
The freedom of thinking.

Just like God cannot be found in church alone
So does my stomach can be fed somewhere else!
I chose not to be just another sheep among the herd
And decided to leave the novitiate.

The road was long for a young boy to walk alone,
But I wanted to smell the flowers on my way.
I too could have been another labour in the village tea factory
Selling my youth to the bourgeois working night and day.
But I was determined to see beyond the horizon
So I took; yes I took the unknown road instead!
I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?

I went to Delhi in search of work
But it was quite different to what I have thought.
There the people were more yet everyone alone,
Though sky high buildings were built with colourful lights,
Far better was my village’s tin-roofed home.
Luxurious cars moved on the streets
Where people were dying of hunger.
Humanity was unclothed in their very eyes
Yet no one seemed to bother.
These cars were heading to the same place,
Where people cannot see, cannot feel,
To the place of sleep walkers walking faceless,
The city where the hypocrites dwell.

I worked in apartments as a security guard
And to my surprise I found many of my home folks there;
Vibrant with life, full of dreams in their heart.
They must have left their homes hoping to live a better life,
Grinding their ripened youth working overtime;
But who is there to tell them that it’s the city of sleepwalkers
And they must not strive?

My time there did not last for more than few months,
At last I had to give him what he deserved.
I still remember his name, my boss, Mr Singh,
Who was more like an animal and less a human being.
He never called me by my name but ‘Bahadur,’
Though many times I told him it was not.
At last I had to tell him what ‘Bahadur’ actually meant
Though it was too late for him to learn.
It was one night when as usual he came drunk,
And shouted, ‘Hey Bahadur, come here and speak.’
He abused me for so long and I could not resist,
I broke his nose and said,
‘I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?’

I went back to the village, my sweet home,
But there I saw nothing the same.
Tea factory was burnt down to ashes
And our people were dying in hunger and pain.
Fathers were shot dead making hundreds of orphans again,
Our women were raped by the ugly, tall dark,
Government appointed army men.
Schools and colleges were shut down,
Youths were mercilessly beaten
And were taken somewhere.
Shops were looted, buildings were destroyed,
There was nothing but complete chaos everywhere.

But we fought with all our strength
Against the dictatorial government.
Surely it would have been our victory
Had not our leaders sold their dignity.
When victory was in the air,
And our long awaited destiny was so near,
Our leaders sold the dreams of our ancestors
And turned out to be the greatest betrayers.

It was an insult to my father’s soul, an injustice
To our people who faced so much of pain.
How can I let the sacrifice of our martyrs
And their long standing dream to simply go in vain?
I must fight against these traitors with all might!
I am a martyr’s son; my father denied all forms of slavery
And died fighting, why should I be afraid?

I roared like a wounded lion in front of these traitors
Unveiling their hypocrisy…
“Our demand has become a joke now
Making the whole world laugh at us.
If you cannot fight till the end
Then why you created so much chaos?
You had the gun but ours was the shoulder,
Judas too must have laughed at you,
You are the greatest of all betrayers.
Our women were raped, fathers were shot dead,
Where were you hiding at that time?
Many lost their families and died in hunger
Can you bring them back again?
I have seen my brothers and sisters abused in public
Have you ever tried to hear their cry?
They flock towards the unknown cities
Have you ever wondered why?
Your sons and daughters must have been
Engineers and Doctors,
Who cares about our schools and colleges?
Who cares about potters and vendors in the street?
Let the roads be blocked and shutters are down.
Who cares about musicians and sportsmen?
Who cares about artists and writers?
Let them find opportunities on their own.
Who cares whether Tea factories function or not?
Who cares if labours and their families sleep empty stomach?
Who cares if roads are damaged?
Who cares if people are deprived of drinking water?
Who cares if only hospitals are there but no doctor?
Who cares…”

I could not finish my speech,
Something so badly struck my head.
I saw one of my brothers running with the ‘khukuri,’
He must have done what he is been said.
I may not finish narrating my life
In a moment or so I will be dead.
But now I am too dying fighting like my father,
Why should I be afraid? Why should I be afraid???




diary-of-a-nakedman
Source - Facebook



 
Copyright © Indian Gorkhas. Designed by Darjeeling Web Solutions