REFLECTIONS IN THE INNOCENT EYES

Perched On a precarious slope,

A hut stands hanging near collapse,

Inside the dwellers are as diverse,

From the grand old man to naive children.

As the old man watches the sun going down,

A sibling scurries between work and play,

The boy in old shorts; not been to school yet,

His sister in dress is a sign she is just back from learning.

She is home but she wears uniform,

A faded blue kira it was,

But the fringes are falling loose,

Will it make it to the yearend? It has to.

A careful tread inside the hut,

Brings about a tremor akin to a quake,

Fading light peeps through the rattling window sill,

But the years of soot have all and sundry painted in black.

The winter is approaching; the crisp air is a sign,

But the crevices are a plenty, and the cold will have no mercy,

Winter can be cruel if you are not wary,

But clothes are scanty and the family is in worry.

An old battered pot boils on the ancient oven,

With fire licking the soot insulated archaic bottom,

Even when the bright electricity illuminates the vicinity,

Wood still burns the hearth and warms the hut here.

As the mother boils a broth,

The children look on expectantly,

The eyes says it all without speaking,

That their stomach grumbles hungrily.

The girl squats near the door,

And watches the fire burn in the oven,

The boy inches closer the cackling embers,

Its warmth as enticing as the broth in the pot.

The eyes of the young girl sparkle beautifully,

As the fire in the oven mirrors in her glassy eyes,

She smiles a beautiful smile sheepishly,

To the snotty grin of her rowdy little brother.

The darkness envelops the lonely hut,

And the old man comes in; a stick in his scrawny hand,

The girl with her innocent eyes peep outside intermittently,

For her father has not yet returned from the forest.

Outside-the place is desolate,

Inside- the poverty is stark,

The house needs repair before falling,

So the father has to go lumbering.

There is helplessness in the grand old man’s face,

There is pain in the woman’s face although she tries to smile,

Those innocent looking eyes may not know why-who knows?

But it is the reason why the father toils alone past the dark night.

There is anguish in your heart at the cruelty of this world,

For some bask and indulge in the wealth and abundance,

From poverty some cannot find a path to escape,

And those innocent eyes keep you haunting, long after you are gone.

Gyembo Namgyal

November 19, 2014, 9:00 PM

Dear readers, it is painful whenever we see injustice in life. We want to do something but always lack the means and those who have the means are least bothered. Today, we in Bhutan have one of the highest per capita wealth in South Asia but, this does not mean we are prospering by any means. Some sections of the people are prospering but the majority is not. Some live in abject poverty right next to prospering lot. This is not fair. We are moving further away from the ideals of His Majesty the King and the Fourth Druk Gyalpo, of a country that should not have the extremes between haves and have nots.

This simple poem is dedicated to those two children and the children like them; so innocent and faultless and yet unaware what the future holds for them. May God Bless Them.