165 years

A poet’s love story in a nutshell.

A tale.

An ode to October chills.

To the changing environment and traditions…To the changing order of things!

A record of what we grew up with, In Kalimpong town.

Farkanna hola aba ma gaye pachi utai tira… A song by John Chamling Rai. I have heard this song over and over until it started resonating with me… it resonated with me so deeply until somebody left… I won't say until someone left me but it was just until someone left my little town and moved to a different city. And I can't describe the pain of departing from someone. It feels like you are just there standing still and there is a storm everywhere around you and you can't understand whats happening probably because you have never seen a storm before. Or at least, you have never seen a storm of that intensity before. And this song suddenly plays somewhere in the distance. I recognize it like the verses of the text that I always read. It makes me feel the same storm inside my heart. And I tell myself it's okay. It's okay. But that word okay feels so small, like a thread trying to hold back a flood.I try to breathe like the world hasn’t changed. I try to walk the same roads, see the same skies, hear the same birds. But everything feels… slightly out of tune. Like the wind is whispering a name I know I shouldn’t answer to. Like the air still carries a warmth that doesn’t belong to this moment anymore.The chairs we sat on, the small shops we passed by without ever entering, even the half-finished conversations, all of it suddenly aches with absence. And in the middle of all that hush, this song… Farkanna hola aba ma gaye pachi utai tira… floats through the air again. Maybe from someone’s speaker nearby. Maybe from the wind itself.And it hits me.This song knew.It knew before me that goodbyes can happen for no clear reason. That some people leave like seasons change, without needing permission. And all you’re left with is the memory of sunlight when the sky turns murky.I pause. I let the music wash over me again, like I’m letting it stitch something back inside me. I am not trying to to fix the wound, but I am just reminding me that I’m still here, still feeling, still human.And somewhere, in that storm of silence and song, I whisper to myself againIt’s okay.It’s okay to be hurt.because maybe pain is the proof that something mattered. That someone mattered.And in that, there’s a strange kind of peace.A soft, unsteady peace, like the moment just after a storm. When the world hasn’t healed yet, but it is starting to.

I have been writing too many opinions lately and have started calling my page Vee’s column. This is one of the episodes and this is my very PERSONAL OPINION.

Ending my April Hinglish poems with this podcast.

Dear Love, I would be waiting for one message, And I would be startled by every phone callthinking it would be you. But goodbyes don't work that way. Some goodbyes mean forever. And deep down I know, some days, you too, wake up with a faint memory of us together. I don't know where you are and you don't know how far I have come. But The only thing is, I remember you. Ardently. Everyday. Despite the odds, despite our indifference. I just remember you.

Inspired by the front porch of Coochbehar Palace.