From memory

Kathmandu staggers

from the debris

of broken homes,

tilts its face toward the sun

as the harshness

of a May day glints

The heat runs

to burn your nape

The dust stings your eyes

and sometimes,

you mistake 

the memory of 

someone you had to leave behind

for the watery eye infection

this city inflicts on  you

precious,

there is no moleskin
to take down notes
of the silly things you say
and no camera to capture
the smile on your face
after a big Japanese meal

marsk

on an evening like this one,
 i want the sun to pause just above the horizon
and for the wind to remain on my face

keizersgracht gleams in the dusk

it's an evening
ahead of some rain
-light lingers at the far end of the sky

coffee arrives accompanied by choco-almond drops
you lift a hand to touch my knees
-the orb dips

later,
transiting in a no-man's land,
prostrate on a grey settee
my face gathered in my arms,
i weep

and i remember

pressed against you
in a hall packed with tall, beautiful people,
i didn't feel so small or ugly.
and even as the stubble on your face bruised my cheek,
i felt healed.

Anne Frank Huis

what might life be

in waiting

for the sun to shine 

on your face,

for the rain to soak your skin,

for the wind

to burn 

your cheeks and tousle your hair?

what might life be 

when living with the curtains drawn

in darkness

waiting

and waiting

to know the war will end

and that you

will have the chance 

of seeing your loved ones again?

Vincent

I think I finally understand why Van Gogh is who he is. It was strange but i had tears running down my eyes when I was looking at his paintings. Then I saw one of my Bangladeshi photojournalist friends had gone off to a corner
and he was actually crying. I think Vincent's work runs on two levels. For many he's just the bright shades and bold strokes. For the others, he's the place we call soul. It almost feels like he'd ripped his soul
open for us to see and when we didn't see what he had to offer, he decided to call it the end. It's the most powerful experience I have ever felt in an art museum. I mean, I have seen English painters' works in
the UK you know. But this was a completely different feeling. It made you want to weep for this man as you looked at all the colours, shapes and contours he had captured while he was bleeding within.

a day of doing nothing

streets stretch before me 

like they would take me 

anywhere i want to go

When little ones leave

Dear Kali,

I lost one of your little ones today to a reckless truck driver. Life for puppies in this country never goes beyond a few months. Especially, for those left on the streets to battle every little thing humans throw their way. I don't know what might have given your little pup a better life. I don't know if he would have been happier in this neighbourhood with his brother. But I'd like to think he was happy in this brief life in Chitwan, chasing after the birds, making friends with other dogs in the neighbourhood and never experiencing the chains. I hope he had a short and happy life, if there is a thing like that.

I have never been able to forget how you looked into my eyes, when KAT center was taking you away. We both knew you were dying. When I heard about your little one today, I hoped he had been reunited with you.

Rest in peace, you two.

P