A Memoir of Dharmashala: Club from 1850s
when the British found vacation joys
In the hills of their enslaved territory.
'Cozy jazz' - playlist on the music platform,
Plays endlessly, I'm all in even if it's hours long.
It triggers something in me
I think about this life. This damned life and
The series of events that brought me
Here again.
A friend who died
And the bike he left me in his will along with
A lot of vivid memories on it across
Lands, oceans, and hills.
One or two songs from the playlist
Or even more, tweaking the slow cinnamon
Burn of our days from the college..
They take me back to pull my heart out
To the life at it's the barest laughter and
We staring back at it with the coldest eyes.
Then he goes away. Twenty years have
Passed and I haven't cried it out yet.
I feel like poking my eyes with this pen
In my to nab down every bit of tear that
Doesn't come out. But no.
I have to drag this life for him.
I gotta feel un-poured rains for him.
And see the unveiled horizons. And experience
That nightly starlight across the Himalayas.
And maybe someday at dawn, when the sun
Comes up across a snow-laden mountains
In the village of Zanskar, to bring
Peace to my years of traveling streak.
I would then order two cups of
Sea-Buck-Thon tea, to say cheers to an empty seat.
And slowly drink it to fade away in
The foggy wisdom the same evening.