I saw words tucked in the wrinkles of Tibetan people. Refugees were gossiping

in the stale group, after the China invasion, Tibet bled. They live

safely in the Main Part beside their election council and Dhakpo Shedupling Buddhist Monastery.

gully dogs looked frisky. in a thatched hut open in four directions, I sipped

watery tea, but samosa was sumptuous,

perhaps after tasteless tea.

my daughter looked for the red sun, tucked on the land

“It is a leafless tomato”/ I wandered about little one’s metaphor/ dusk was at hand.

We halted near a vendor selling chiniya almond on a reed stall.

The exiled prince along with his wife and younger brother were giving side glances to us in a tribal painting crafted on the wall.

on the pebbled fountain, I kissed my daughter, thinking about

Tibetan prayer flags pervading around, did sweetness of cheek come out of them?

swampy land trembled beneath, we jumping frogs,

but endless laughter was exactly in equilibrium. We went on towards

hillside farming that was squared ahead, like the lunchbox

of many segments.  Mother used to keep spicy bhujia

in the smallest one. Boiled rice chunk in biggest one as I am rice lover,

born in the cauldron of paddy // among knee dipped women sowing seeds.

One day I would like to feed red lentil tadka in a moderate one // Tathagata’s lunchbox.

~Dr. Pragya Suman

Bihar, India