Few Poems by Bhuwan Thapaliya. 1. “Mother, we are hungry!” “Mother, we are hungry!” Our stomach is sallow and we can walk no more. The smog of hunger’s incense stifles our existence and the quenchless fire of thirst glows in our soul. Mother, if you don’t mind, say it to us, only to us, in secret, “Why does the hunger always whirl in our stomach, and run from colon to the core?” Ah, O Mother, tell us, why it doesn’t have the wings? “Tell us, why it doesn’t roll away as the waves of the sea?” Mother, they say, the mystery of our existence is written on this little forehead of ours. Mother, they say, our rice fields are full of landmines and we cannot grow crops. Mother, they say, Our young brothers and sisters have migrated to foreign land because of the civil war, leaving only the elderly to take care of our farms. Mother, they say, we are hungry because we are poor and we don’t have money to buy food from the store. Mother, they say, The World Bank is deaf, UNICEF is blind, and the F.A.O is dumb. Is this really true my mother? Mother, some say, we are hungry because of the geo- politics. Mother, they say, we are starving because of the free trade policy measures implemented by our government to go hand in hand with the world under the WTO norms. Mother, some even say, we are hungry because they are building a house in the moon. We are hungry because they are building tunnels after tunnels in the desert to hear their nuclear tunes. Mother, they say, we are hungry because of the extremists no matter, wherever they wage terrorism. We are hungry because men are not men, they have only human forms. Mother, I don’t know the truth. But tell us; tell us, O mother, if all this be true then we will neither mourn for our hunger nor blame you. Ah! O Mother, before we go up in the sky, where the stars are. Say it to us, only to us, in secret, “Why not the hunger floats in our stomach as the pristine mass of an oil dancing over the serene core of the water?” She smiled sadly and said, ‘Ah, shame!’ “The gravity of the hunger is very perilous. Man is born hungry, and will die hungry in the world’s dusty theater, where the play of desire runs houseful forever.” They glanced at her and said, ‘What a shame, humanity has turned its back on us, and the ray of hope lay deserted on its own solitary course.’ They have forgotten to comb our hair though before the world we stripe naked with sunken eyes and trodden hope. But yet we don’t blame you, for our hunger, O proud world! Daily we go to the temple, light our lamps, and pray for you all. But our prayers are shut up within the bricks of the temple. Ah! Even God doesn’t want to help us. But yet, in God we do trust. Much have you given us, O the mighty Lord, Yet we ask for more – We come to you not only for the food to soothe our hunger but to sing our last song, ‘The song of the children gone much ahead before their time, to sing the chorus of life with the funeral pyre.’ 2. “Will you remember these words, when you grow old?” “I believe in your lips but not in your tongue. Your lips are salubrious but venomous is your tongue. It intoxicate those lips, my guide of an eternal road through the dark unknown – a core languid with the burden of the soul, and a soul languid with the burden of the core,” says an infant to the world. The world whispered, “My child, in your mother’s womb you dream that you can make the world dance, to your own tune; Suddenly yours eyes open; and you see the world as it really is, the dead leaves floating in the wind, in the human valley, plagued by the ripening diversity, and decaying unity.” No, my world! “I shall never be hopeless, whatever you may say. I shall rhyme my life with the rhythm of the God’s chime, and row my boat of love over the human’s core until their stream of abhorrence runs dry,” sang the infant to the world. But, my child, said the world, “Will you remember these words, when you grow old?” 3. I wish I could exchange kisses with you. They say, you are up there in the sky, where the stars are. But darling! Whenever, I miss you, I cry, and often see you floating over my tears. But, my love! as soon as I see you, I wipe the tears with my smiles, and whisper softly in your ears, “I wish I could exchange kisses with you. If I call you, will you come closer to the earth?” 4. Wash the blood of xenophobia from your hands. A voice came, out of nowhere, and said, “Come on, leave your false identities, leave your fake fallacies, leave yourself from you, leave the hoax that you are you, come out in the garden of God, and wash the blood of xenophobia from your hands.” When I first heard that voice, I ignored that voice, and kept on marching on and on, within the borders of my life but even after years of negligence, the voice kept on hitting me, on and on, with higher notes. Then one fine day, I decided enough is enough, and had one on one conversation with the voice. I asked the voice, “Why are you always troubling me with your thoughtless advices?” The voice smiled aloud, leaned on my shoulder and asked, “What is there in Indians, which is not in Pakistanis? What is there in Pakistanis, which is not in Indians?” Ah! It was a tough question to answer for a fickle brain like me, but to hide my ignorance, I gave, hundred examples, but finally, I gathered courage, and asked the voice to answer its own question. “Listen, my son,” it said, “The answer is very simple, “what is there in Indians there is also in Pakistanis, and what is there in Pakistanis there is also in Indians. Because both – the Pakistanis and the Indians have a heart- the engine of love.” And likewise, it said, “What is there in Americans that is also in Iranians, and what is there in the Iranians, there is also in the Americans. Because both- the Americans and the Iranians are the children’s of one father – Love.” My son, it said, “Don’t worry about the mythical national frontiers, establish love and solidarity all around, and then watch the free play of natural forces. If you do not think beyond your nation, you will never become a true human being in this life: do not die, do not die my son, without being a human- after leading a human life.” Oh, how, indeed could I tell the voice that all these years, I had been living a false life? How could I utter for shame that I am not a human being, but a beast in the human form? I sat on the grass of the reality, and waited there for hours and hours gazing upon the human, creed by creed, religion by religion, skin by skin, nationality by nationality, trembling with utter shame as a creeper rocked by the wind. The voice rose again from its slumber and said, “Stand up oh awaken! Let not your life pass in vain! Here, take my hand and let it be your guide.” I stood up with a fertile heart, and felt that I have become human for the first time in my life, and whispered softly in his ears, “Thank you voice, thank you so much for opening my eyes. Come, my voice, let us sing the song that has remained unsung till this day.” Oh Lord! No more worshippers, yet, we will burn your lamp, open the rusty gates of your temple, and bow before you, our pride. Nationalism, patriotism, and hollow martyrdom these all are myths for us they do not exist in our realism. We are the global citizens, the true citizens of this world. We believe not in the axis of evil, but in the circle of love. Oh Lord! Give us the pang of thousand spiders, and take away everything we possess. Smack us with the hammers of misfortune, and nail our smiles in the sachet of pain. Oh Lord! Take us to the mountain, and roll us down, down, down, from the cliff, and leave our corpse for the icicles to gulp. Drag us to the river Koshi, peel our heart naked, and then throw us into its hungry rapids, as they throw fishes in the mouth of the alligator. Oh Lord! Tie our hands to the gallows pole, and as earthworms, burrow deep into the soil, to bury our soul. Estrange us from our poems, erase every verse of ours, take our poetic fervor and the rhythms of our life. Thus we pray before you, our lord, with folded hands, and with tears. After so many beleaguered years, do what you yearn to do with us, but please give every mother what she needs today - Peace, peace, peace, peace and peace. So that her darkened heart, might become, a glittering ray of glorious years to come. About the author: Bhuwan Thapaliya is a Nepali poet writing in English and a socio- political writer affiliated with various online journals of the world.