Emerging above
from the valley of love
blind and wailing
feeble and aching
encircled
gently
in the arms
of God

To my creator
who let me spring
from a tiny seed into a being
breathed her soul
until a life sparked within

To my begetter
who thrust me out
gently but firmly
lovingly but resolutely
into the jarring world

To my nurturer
whose bosoms I tore
until broken and sore
gnawed and sucked
with my toothless gums
suckling the life flow

To my precious inventor
who sculpted me bit by bit
plucking
her own tissue and bones
scooping her very own pith
and planting it at my core
whose blood I drank
now runs in my veins

There is none other of course!
not the one sitting in the heavens
not the one sitting at the altar
there is none other
there cannot be
other than my own 
precious mother

(image by AngelaSasser @deviant art )

A cocoon
they say
we live in

What do they know
of storms that throw
us up and about
in and out

What do they see
of scars unhealed
beneath a crack
of smile

What do they care
of burdens we bare
bent and broken
like weary oxen

a cocoon
they say
we live in

while
the rest
of the world
I believe
is at
war

image by : http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=cocoon&offset=24#/d2lxilo

Thank you and have a wonderful day!

http://www.new-asian-writing.com/2369/the-perpetual-traveller/

up a scant chimney
swirled grey smoke
a bent little body
from a corner woke

a thin slice
of flat bread
on an open fire
a head full of distress
and a heart full of desire

It is time to go
to go and pluck
no time for woe
while tearing a baby’s suck

nimble fingers 
against green spear tips
opens cuts and blood drips
it’s not the mist
if you must know
that turns the leaves
into a precious pekoe

Yet drink we must
for them to pluck
for the milk in her breast
for money in her pocket
there is although
a lot more we can do
but we’d rather not
you know what I’m talking about

Your spirits  might I augment
when this I must express
to be, we are what we are meant
to be, we are, what are we meant?
you question unwilling to relent
To you then, I hurl, a blow with my intent

Blood drinking
and indifferent,
affected and indulgent
That is who we are.
Good night to you now
and Godspeed

Sonada, 24th September

“The truth that there is a legitimacy attached to the present GTA, 6th Schedule and DGPP (Darjeeling Gorkha Paarvatya Parishad), or that  a constitutional guarantee is attached to the above, is none of our concern. Darjeeling is a territory of Sikkim; its constitutional guarantee and its territorial legality lies solely in unification with Sikkim”, stated Mr. Nima Lama, president of GRC (Gorkha Rashtriya Congress), in conversation with Himalaya Darpan.

“We have no comments to make on the present GTA because Gorkha Rashtriya Congress is mainly concerned with presenting the issue of Darjeeling  and Doars territories belonging to Sikkim, to the Goverment of India and Sikkim”.
According to Mr. Lama, the current demand of the Government of West Bengal and Communist Party of India (Marxist) made to the Central government, declaring Darjeeling territory as one of the backward regions of the country also lacks appropriateness because in 1986 the government of West Bengal issued an information document declaring Darjeeling as a part of Sikkim and not of Bengal.
Mr. Lama further affirms that because during the British rule, Darjeeling was declared a backward territory, and according to the 1919 Government of India Act, an assembly and a member of the legislative assembly was elected from various backward regions of the country. However, Darjeeling was kept separated from the execution of the above mentioned act. Then in the year 1954, Darjeeling was merged with West Bengal under the Absorbed Act.
Based on  historical documents, Darjeeling and Doars territories have been shown as belonging to the King of Sikkim until 1954, post Indian independence.
Mr. Lama further confirms that in the year 1835, the king of Sikkim, Chogyal VI granted this territory to the British through Deed of Grant for sanatory purposes. The British Raj paid yearly lease to the government of Sikkim from 1841 to 1941. The lease had increased from an amount of  3000 rupees to more than 3,00,000 rupees. There are documents stating that since the merger under the Absorbed Act of 1954, the Indian government paid the above mentioned lease to the government of Sikkim, until the year 1975.
It was only in 1975 when Sikkim was annexed to India as the 22nd state, that the Indian government stopped paying the lease to Sikkim. Mr. Lama affirmed that the  territory of Darjeeling merged to the state of Bengal comprises of a total area of 5930 square miles whereas, the area that various political parties or leaders of the hills have been demanding for Gorkhaland only amounts to 2256 square miles.

He further states that Darjeeling and Sikkim are very closely related to one another in terms of language, literature, culture, living, clothing and topography. Therefore, Gorkha Rashtriya Congress is resolute on their demand for the unification of Darjeeling and Sikkim in which case, the people of Darjeeling will be free from oppression and exploitation of Bengal. He mentioned that, “since the time of independence, Darjeeling hills hasn’t seen the light of development. Instead, the number of tea plantations have been reduced from 102 to 72 by the government.”  Mr. Lama further reflected that in the year 1948, the king of Sikkim  Tashi Namgyal submitted a ten page memorandum to the then prime minister of India, the late Pandit Jawarharlal Nehru. Also, in the year 1962, the queen of Sikkim, Hope Cook Namgyal had made a plea for the return of Darjeeling territory to Sikkim but the plea has been ignored by the government of India up until now.
In the context of Sikkim’s annexation with Bengal, Mr. Lama said, that in 1975, a member of parliament questioned the late prime minister Indira Gandhi regarding the fate of the territory of Darjeeling post the annexation of Sikkim to India as the 22nd state. The late prime minister answered saying that Darjeeling had not been claimed by a responsible quarter from Sikkim.
Finally the president of GRC states that the local intellectuals and intellectuals from Sikkim have to understand and consider these historical facts and unite in order to carry this issue forward. Mr. Lama concluded saying that the only solution to freedom from bondage of Bengal lies in the unification of Darjeeling with Sikkim.

Love for love’s sake
you dedicate
to another
it’s needless

Love for love’s sake
for another
you think you are
a saint, it’s a banter

Love for love’s sake
speechless beings crave
hovering on the edge
of elimination

Too high a price
your comfort brings
you oblivious murderer!
You love not for love’s sake

Uttering I love you
to the likes of you
for there’s your safety
of getting back I love you too’s

Holding a voiceless
to highest esteem
living on all fours
fleeing death
or meeting one is
when you will have lived
and loved for love’s sake

There is a ghost in my house
surely there is
a shadow in my room
in the corner he sits

He crawls up on my walls
shoots me with a look
whispers obscenities
spits on my prayer book

When I sleep at night
he creeps into my bed
looks for an opening
to crawl into my head

there is a ghost in my house
he says he loves me without doubt

Image by mairimart @www.deviant.com

The computer-generated image of a T-rex, devours a smaller raptor in a feast of carnage.  The documentary drones on the bright screen while the three year old cavorts in front of a flat screen TV; the nine year old grumbles but sits on the dining table doing his homework nevertheless. Sharp smell of garlic hits the air as soon as small, diced bits sizzles in hot oil. The mother tackles dinner as usual. Chicken curry with rice, the only dish that each member of this family relishes without complaint.

The father will be home soon, frazzled and bleary eyed from a daylong session of glaring non-stop into the computer. But before he comes home, some one else turns up at the doorstep and things are never the same again.

It’s not the usual pling of the doorbell but a rat-a-tat-tat. The boys run towards their mother instead of the door. She opens the door with the boys tugging at her apron on each side. The front porch is empty. It must’ve been the neighbour’s wicked little boy who rings the door bell sometimes and hides to get a sheer kick out of people’s faces as they peer outside to see who it is.

Just when the mother is about to shut the door, a voice reaches her “hello!” A tall stooping stranger clad in black from head to toe, with a black felted hat and a pair of dark shades stands on the porch. It’s too dark outside for him to be wearing sunglasses she thinks. “May I come in?” his voice is as thin as the evening air. The little boy whimpers and the older one hides behind his mother. Flanked by her boys and with the ladle dripping yellow turmeric oil on the floor, dangling from her hands, the mother starts to say something but is immediately put to silence. “Oh do not be afraid.  I shall not come if you think I should not.” All three of them stand rooted on the spot.
“Are you Maya Hellstrom? If I may ask?” upon receiving an affirmative nod, he continues, “I have something for you,” and hands her a single piece of paper.  He then says, “You may answer these question if you like, and drop it into your own post box.” Sensing her perplexity he smiles, his teeth yellow, jagged and pointed at the tips. “Oh don’t worry, it’s just random survey. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Thank you for your time. Goodbye! And oh yes,”he slides the shades to the tip of his nose with one of his hands so that she can see him eye to eye. For a moment she thinks she sees a pair of milky white translucent pupils looking back at her. Before she can react, the shades are pushed back and he is already on his way waving a thin long arm over his shoulder. “ And, Merry Christmas!”
Now, this is the queerest thing she’s heard because Christmas is still far away. She returns to the kitchen, and the boys run off to resume their play, pushing the unconventional stranger far behind in their heads.
Back in the kitchen, she stirs her chicken and sits on the kitchen table studying the questions. 1) What or who would you become if you were not who you are now?  2) If you could turn back the clock where would you like to be? The final question is the most disquieting one of all. 3) If you died, would you like to come back?
“Rubbish” she mutters but writes the answers anyway on an impulse.
A horrible beeping noise at the back of her head has been irking her nerves all day long. As she scribbles, the noise gets a couple of decibels louder and by the time she finishes writing the answers, the beeping is literally beating loudly against her eardrums.
“Mummy! Mummy!”  The little one yells and runs after her as she opens the door to go to the post box. She steps out of the threshold, on to the first landing of the stairs when her knees give away and she is pelted into the air the light of the world suddenly growing dimmer, the sound of her youngest boy’s voice echoing like down an empty well, the beeping getting cacophonous against the fading echo of her son’s voice. The last thing she sees before sinking into a murky eclipse is the paper floating before her dimming sight.
1.  I couldn’t be anyone else. If I were, then it wouldn’t be me.
2.    It’s not humanly possible and I strongly dislike the word “if”
3.    Yes. As  myself. Not as anybody or anything else.
Her tongue is glued to the roof of her mouth; the beeping sound still surrounds her, although it’s not as deafening as before. Her movement is hindered, as her joints are stiff. Her eyelids part but all she sees is immaculate white fuzz. It’s like she is immersed in vanilla floss and yet the smell says otherwise. A strong smell of disinfectant tickles her nostrils and suddenly a shadow blots her haze. Slowly, everything around comes into focus and she sees two faces hovering above her. “Welcome back love!” it’s her husband looking down at her with tear filled eyes. She can feel his hands clutching hers. “It’s wonderful to have you back Mrs. Hellstrom,” the doctor smiles as he examines her. “Wh-where am I? How long have I been here?” she asks feebly. Her husband squeezes her hand and says, “You are at the hospital love.” He squeezes her hand harder. “Umm it has been exactly one year today.” She looks around and sees the monitor beside the bed beeping steadily. Then she sees a big white illuminated star hanging on the window. “Is-is it Christmas already?” she utters with an uncanny feeling tugging at her heart. “Yes darling” her husband says between sobs. “Merry Christmas love!” he says and buries his face in her chest.

Picture by Nismo at www.deviantart.com

I have been to a sacred place of magick*
and felt a myriad of pulse,
quivering from the core of its granite heart,
finding a passage, thus finding me.
Ageless stories floating in the wind,
of hunters and warriors
of witches both black and white.
That which the sea shapes
into most confounding contours
must be older than age itself.

O Blue Maiden! what one sees
is but a mirage across the steel grey sea.
A cold dome of simmering blue from afar,
but eye to eye a mighty titian mound.
Balmy and seductive
in the month of the sun,
speckled with twisted trees
branches frozen in an eternal dance.

The yeilding ground below bedded
with remains of dead barks, pulverised;
nourishing life of cavorting trees.
Life and death go hand in hand,
yet what meets the eye
may from truth be far,
of your cold unforgiving side,
your frigid vengeful heart.

Your unsympathetic core,
the velvety facade where
seagulls no longer perch,
the black guillemot no longer roost,
the grey seals no longer rest.
Yet we shall not be kept away.

Massive hanging boulders
joining heads together,
a ghostly cavern in its base,
where the wild wind whispers
a catena of prayers
or a string of malediction.
There in your mighty chamber
O Blue Maiden!
with the red rock above my head,
I hear your whisper in the wind.

“Walk through my labyrinth
and help me melt my icy core.
Walk through it with a heart full of truth,
and return thus blessed with my luck.
Whisper a prayer for me within its circles
but beware the unwrinkled enticing stones.
Take heed. Pray! do not carry it home.
for they all carry a forbidding doom.
Things uprooted carry relentless ire,
that shall alight your life with a destructive fire.”

My boat sways in the blackest of waters,
my heart weeps from a silent departure.
Up and down the ruthless waves toss,
brackish water my form awash.
I leave behind a red granite promontory,
in its reckless disheveled beauty.
But within my veins, it now runs,
the silent victory that I have won,
my heart with strong pulse it beats,
with unfurling new petals of magick*.

*magick is an early modern spelling in English which was used in the mid 1600s. Occultist Aliester Crowley chose this spelling to mark the difference between occult and stage magic.