Monday, March 30, 2009

Santinekatan and Rabindranath Tagore

I don't expect you to pronouce either properly.

*more to come, this weekend I return.

West Bengal Neighborhood Security

Two days ago and to much relief I moved out of backpacker alley- Sudder St. and into a neighborhood near the red light district of Kiddipur. DO NOT FEAR: We have a security guard. Every night from 11:00 PM to 5:00 AM this man paroles the neighborhood, bangs a wooden stick against the cracked pavement and blows a whistle- simultaneously. The jest being if the alarms of whistle and banging stick at some point stop- be scared, the criminal has taken out the neighborhood security. Backwards? Not in India.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

my belgium beauties.

Friday, March 27, 2009

A School for Santals.

Wife Kirsti, former British teacher and her husband Rahul, Indian philosopher, started a school for the young children of their community in Santinekatan. The school is primarily made up of the neighboring Santal population. Santals are the largest tribal community in India, found mostly in West Bengal, Bihar, Jharkhand, Assam and Orissa.
*Think Santals treated in India how Native American's are treated in America.
The teachers
Kirsti and Rahul's middle child. Her favourite color is yellow.
Enjoying a french press and cards made at the school with Tsewong, Bhutanese media extraordinaire and Rebecca, New York NGO consultant.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

on meeting a mango tree.

a peculiar yet familiar smell
distracts me from operation
of a moto nearly missing a mange dog
and plowing into a sweet mango tree
Nandun and I lay sideways in the
dirt of a cricket field
laughing profusely
of our near fatal encounter

life is but a joke, a jest of wits,
a harmless poke.

Friday, March 13, 2009

upon arrival

I feel so ashamed
I think I need so much
my back breaks
with all my belongings
postmodern. materialist.
secular. world.
i could not leave my room
for 1 and a half days.
i sat in and ordered
room service
i tried to gather
once i ventured
to the rooftop terrace
to watch pink and purple paint
plastered on pretty faces.
holi. holi. holi. holi.
a gentleman brought me to the
train. platform. car. seat.
i feel caged
and confined

mother teresa came to kolkata
and she stopped and stayed upon baring witness of the suffering
she settled in and soothed
the sick, she shed sun light on souls

this is not for the faint of heart

(nor digestive system)

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

love is written on her sleeves.

Journalist write to be objective and accurately depict a situation or circumstance.

I am not a journalist.

I am a nomad.

I am a jingling gypsy
with bangles far up each

I am a poet.

I am a humanitarian and I am handing you
my heart.

Here she is,
she's yours.