New Year Exiled

There is not party but you stumble home
There is no party but the vendor is sold out of meat
There is no party but everyone is inside off the street
Your spirit is temporarily on loan

So I walk on
And I walk on
And I walk on

Until I see you lying by the road
Crippled by the impossible load

You shouted but your voice went hoarse
Your fight, our dream,
They will succeed against our present course

you have hung your self on a short rope
Maybe next year, next year
there will be the option for hope

Saturday Afternoon

By noon on Saturday I am ready go get moving, the sun is shinning, and I have the day off from work, Julia and I walk down to lower Dharamshala to buy some fabric to get some clothes made. After two hours of pretending to be very high fashion and fabulous we went for lunch, and then to the bus station go get a ride back up the hill. A jeep with 12 people in it heading to Dharamshala, passed us by, we figured we would get the next one since that one was full. We were naive to think 12 passengers equates to “full,” the jeep reversed and came back for us.

The driver hopped out, ran around the car, opened the door, and shoved us in. It didn’t matter, no. 13 and 14 were happy to be on their way. Then the driver made and unexpected stop for petrol and (2 more passengers, 16 total). For “safety” he filled an extra container of petrol and loaded it on to Julia’s lap. And so we made our way back from of fashion excursion, me sitting on the lap of a woman half my size, Julia with a petrol can on her lap. Trying not to laugh—but not succeeding in hiding my amusement I paid the driver 5 rupees = .oo1, thinking all the while that the experience would have been a steal at 10X the price.

I am counting this as a point for the foreign ladies, the score is now
FL 2 :India 1,000,000

My First Hate Mail

I would be upset if it wasn't so funny,
And it is officially the only time I have ever been insulted and called tan in the same breath.

"U guys r just the lower level citizens
Bad blood and so fuckin tanned
I am just telling u the truth of what we think about u shitties.."

"shitties..." i love it

Top 5 Favorite things about life in McLeod Ganj (this week)

1.Concerned citizens. In this small hill station the roads are as you would guess very narrow so the concerned drivers of the world honk their horn when their bumper is 5 feet from hitting me. It has occurred to me that by the time they honk the horn it would be too late for me to move anyway but I appreciate the concern.

2.Steep hills and endless steps, it is hard to be nervous for an interview when I have just had to climb up the mountain and am more concerned about catching my breath.

3.“yak cheese” in Tibet dried yak cheese is an enormously popular snack. Here there are no yaks and I have been assured no yak products so when the vendors ask me Hello, yak cheese? And show me a string of, what look like fermented marshmallows I am interested…

4.My Amala (mother) who daily warns me about Kashmir men and reminds me that everything begins with Chai. I am wondering if she knows something about the secret powers of chai that have so far escaped me, after all it is not red wine!

5.When asked where my office is the best way to describe it is to say “ across the street from the bushes that everyone likes to pee on,” the location is pinpointed immediately

William Dalrymple

Dhondup getting his book signed.

Dharamsala Feb 12, William Dalrymple, author of White Mongol read this poem in the Tibetan library. The words lived in the audience and I am beginning to understand what it means to be in exile.

Zafar scrolled these verses on the stable walls after his city was pulverized and he was imprisoned by the British.


When in silks you came and dazzled
Me with the beauty of your spring ,
Your brought a flower to bloom
Lover with in my being

You lived with me, breath of my breath
Being in my being, never left my side;
But now the wheel of time has turned
And you are gone—no joys abide

My life now gives mo ray of light,
I bring to solace to heart or eye;
Out of dust to dust again,
Of no use to anyone am I.

Delhi was once a paradise
Where love held sway and reigned;
But it’s charm lies ravished now
And only ruins remain.

No tears where shed when shrouded they
Where laid in common graces
No prayers were read for the noble dead
Unmarked remain their graves

The heard distressed,
The wounded flesh,
The mind, ablaze, the raising sigh;
The drops of blood, the broken heart,
Tears on the lashes of the eye.

But things cannot remain, O Zafar
Thus, for who can tell?
Through God’s great mercy and
The Prophet
All may yet be well.

After the reading and discussion I go to talk with Dalrymple, I ask him if he has found his new story here in Dharamsala. He tells me about an old man that he has found in a retirement home, if I tell you I would have to kill you (IItyiwhtky), but he has a great new story to tell. Off hand I remark to him that reading this poem in front of this audience is a story in itself, he catches on that idea and says "right" reflectively. I can’t help but think he means “write”.