Photo Story

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

I took this photograph last year and named it as "Extra-ordinary league of women". The kith & kins in the villages wanted each of this photo to be kept as their 'possession'. I heard a photo studio in the East has kept it as an admiration to these generations of women.

From your right: My daughter, her mother, her grandmother, her great grandmother and her great great grandmother.

Interestingly, each is the eldest of their children. Now isn't it not the extra-ordinary league of women?

Little story

Monday, December 10, 2012

I am Sonam Peday Yangchen. I was born on 4 August 2008 in the old labour room of JDWNRH around 8 P.M. The older folks surrounded me and expressed their joys. My grandmother was so happy and so was my grandfather. A lady held me in her hands. Her face looked tired but through her pair of eyes showed lots of love. She was my mother. Just then a black man entered the crowd. He forced his way to look at me. He looked awful with an odd expression on his face. Did I see him wiping his eyes? My father, he said he cried that time.

I spent my first night in the hospital ward beside my mother. My father slept below our bed on the concrete floor.

My father told me that I did not cry that night when other babies wailed throughout. There was one particular baby boy two days older to me in a corner who troubled his father. I think his cry disturbed my father. My father woke up from his thin mat and looked at the other father. The other father, tired and fatigued, tried smiling at my father. The two fathers took up the conversation.

The other father said, “Zai, tengyen, he is not sleeping at all.”
My father could not stop laughing, “Boys are like that,” and leaned against the bed. They became friends and talked until the wee hours.

When it was time for me to get discharged that morning, my father did not look good. He was concerned I did not even pee that night. His concerns did not alarm anyone, not especially the nurse who walked by. The nurse left us smiling. My father blushed.

I was taken straight to Motithang where awaited many aunties who looked exactly like my mother. They caressed me, talked to me, passed me on to their laps but all through I did not even open up my eyes. I was watched like an alleged of first-degree felony criminal When I moved my hand, it made them the news. When I smiled in my sleep, it made them smile. Some aunties who missed me smiling waited for hours. But I did not smile as easy as that they would want me to see. I simply kept on sleeping.

After a month, I was taken to Kala Bazar. Here I met many uncles who looked exactly like my father. Of course, not all uncles were dark like him. It was the same routine repeated: they held me in their hands, talked to me and carried me around the house. The only difference was that their handlings were rough and voices hoarse.

Every weekend my parents took me to Motithang. I spent all day with my aunts. They talked about me on anything from the color of skin to what I wore. Later in the evening when I reached home, my uncles would have waited all day long missing me terribly. While they would not talk about the dress I wore, they would mess up my little hair uttering phrases such as ‘Beckham style,’ and laughed among themselves. Crazy uncles, I could have told them now.

                                                   not the end

An Artist

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Once upon a time, we were told that one does not need to teach how to make love. Today it looks like only a half baked story. Love making is an art. I am an artist.

An artist does not hurry up to ejaculate his yellowish hardened sperm until it is churned, nurtured and made ready to regain its original runny state and color. And it all helps when every part of other love maker's body is frisked, pinched, moulded, felt and plucked right from combing every strand of any hair to digging nails of toes and fingers.

Imagination is the key but diverting from that moment to another person is a sin. A ticket to heaven cannot be granted alone. Heaven is a bliss if both reach the destination together. Aftermath brings the smile on both the faces, hands around the necks, gasping, staring at the ceiling that it smiles you back. A water jug on the bedside pedestal cools down the souls but smoking cigratte is only a preconcieved idea of becoming 'cool' borrowed from movies that is very 'cheap' falling down to a level of pimp. After drinking water, go to relieve yourself and do it after you obeserve the status of your organ who took you to heaven a moment ago. If you don't appreciate the magic it can do, it is likely you will fall asleep straightaway and miss  attendance the next day. Otherwise, another sequel of going to heaven is guaranteed and hence the ceiling shall smile you back, once again.

Make love while heaven pours down for it gives you freedom to moan louder than usual. Hear your partner but keep check on your manliness for hard yellow bristles will spoil your bed too early. Haha, forget it. Got to go. :) It is for you Coco, thanks for reminding to update this blog.
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