Monsoon in Sikkim

There is too much mystery,
the heart skips beats
the hand pelts stones
the foot splashes rain
the green canopy covers
this unstoppable monsoon.

Tall grass mushrooms-
breeding leeches and butterflies,
spreading tentacles to bare feet,
that touch and withdraw
to warm blankets and quilts.

The lethargic mind is poisoned
with guilt,
faced with so much levity.

It rains ceaselessly,
crosses limits with its arrogancy.
(I know the word is fancy!)
There is no pattern
in the sunlight's occasional visits,
no assurance of laundry
drying,
or fresh water subsiding.

A lone pine stands its ground
aloof in its mystery

24/7/12
Rabong

For my nephew when he turns 15

I see you in this room-
ten years hence, a teenager
-wonder about what
adorns your walls, your mind
and how old I am

and I see you, walk
into the room, playing
with tools, still five.

The sound of children enters my room
sometimes, their laughter so immediate,
it makes one think.

I live
on the fringes of
this playground,
making noise, un-listenable for you.

I wish you thrive,
whether in
or outside the fringes,
the boundaries
others create -
I hope you break

and I hope you know that
where aunts like me come from
is no evil place.