I am the Nepali prostitute writing love letters to you in broken Hindi,quoting bad shairs by movie Mujrewaalis to give my love dignity, a name.
You are the client who is missing when I open my eyes in the morning.
I will never know you carry my letters in your wallet,show them to friends on drunken evenings.
You will never know how far the idea of loving you took me.


(not by me. i read it in the blog http://andthenthemonk.blogspot.com/...whoever wrote it ...my regards)

From On the Sunday of Life

Bring your love baby I can bring my shame 
Bring the drugs baby I can bring my pain 
I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here 
Bring the cups baby I can bring the drink 
Bring your body baby I can bring you fame 

We

we, those who stay here
looking at the sunrises
and thinking of tomorrow
on an envelope of atmosphere
history lies in the backyard
and eyes that look out through the window
to golden corn fields of tomorrow
where are we going?
where?
at times peace seemed so dear
that i would have walked the streets naked
with a green flag, screaming "join me"
more closer to the fertile earth
where the earthworms dig incessantly
i would have embraced Satan
i would put human faces to stones

At times peace seemed so dull
that i would cut myself up
to see the squirting blood on your skin
at times i wanted to burn everything
Reality, u fools reality

yet history like a vast unending novel
stays in our hearts
yet to be deciphered
making us numb
stopping our gait

now the rain falls on the hilltops
only to remind you of what you have already seen

curl up the evolution
with my hands at my throat
unable to speak
curl up the poems that say nothing new
only eat its own frayed ends
reminding me that i am alone
with wants and needs like everybody

Do u understand ?
the rats now seem honest to me.

Darjeeling, June 2011

Such green is not of us
Such green and cold
Breeds other people
Not us.

Woes are hid behind the cloud-capped hill
In the silence of the swollen tribal face.
The stones don’t speak, the water is tired
Busy flowing past the stones
   In oblivion with clouds
     Silent , going
      Down the trench.


Some pristine and lonely spirit
Haunts the hills.
Her prayer is said in silence
The vegetation follows
   Heads downtrodden with rain
Intermingling brute hunger with innocence
     Unlike us.

Relics stay, I ask, ―what is that for?
Behind the Old Catholic church
Some romantic and old misery hurts
Like a tribal story, like a bible thing
Appears so desolate
And green green green

Not for us at all!
(Its quite an old poem just thought that it fitted here )

From Darjeeling

(the toy train station...i added too much film grain i guess)

From Darjeeling

(the town)

From Darjeeling

(near the lake in Mirik)

From Darjeeling

(some memorial for the soldiers who died in Kargil)

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

(the blue umbrella)

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

(near Mirik lake)

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

(the corn sellers)

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

(a view from my hotel room)

From Darjeeling

From Darjeeling

(there is a raindrop on the lens)

From Darjeeling

(Globetrotter..eh?)