Dharamsala

Dharamsala, Oh, why do I love Dharamsala?
Can I go again?

You probably shouldnt ask me. You probabaly shouldn't ask me if you dont want to get bored listening to thousand things beautiful and million things mediocre-ly beautiful, if you dont want to feel jealous, if you dont want to leave your cities, if you dont want to curse the choices you made in your life.

But here we go.

When its sunny, its warm.
When its too sunny, cool breeze from Bhagsu river soothes you
When it rains, you have an elephant peeing on your roof.
When its drizzling, there is a rainbow and the fog mixes with the droplets and you are in heaven.

Can I go again?

I will leave the sunst and spare you the deepest torture.

So where was I? Yes, Goldfish was saying something.

And as i write/speak to you about Dharamsala, there is dramnyen* music surrounding me while i continue you about my home.

Oh yes, Dharamsala is irresistable, not like your woman's perfume or your mum's parantha, or even your Sunday sleep. It makes you at home, incense on the road, monkeys stealing chana packet from my kitchen and swimming in freezing cold river pools.

I smile, I can not continue. Its unbelievable for someone who is in Dharamsala not more than a year.
What will you do?

Have you ever seen baby monkeys riding on their mother's back and remind you of pure affection and the ideal way of life?




dramnyen* - tibetan guitar

comeback

I havent been writing for a while, seemingly. The last post being two years ago or so. I was busy, busy doing nothing, busy procastinating, busy being busy with society's obligation to have a "real" job which pays you every month, busy falling in and out of love, busy shopping, busy contemplating being a vagabond, busy being a vagabond and busy observing, living and writing.

so here i am with my blackbook someone gifted me last year which ignited everything that was dormant inside me.

everyday i write something in my head, there is a parallel story running in my head as i see small things, continious frames of events in a day, as i stay still, as i cook and as i retire to bed.

Often I would wonder what would become of those stories if i took the effort to write them down. I knew i was letting certain beautiful or painful moments pass by. Sometimes I knew it was intentional, most probably I didnt want to share what I see. Yes, little selfish and laughing a little in the corner.

Well, I need an outlet. I need to be able to go back to those stories. I want to write. I am tickled to write. I am starved.