The boy monks of Gangtok

In these hills they spoke mostly of frank-innocence, myrrh ,camphor, a white smoke curling to heavens, a hollow echo in layers of hills like rumble of the first thunder.Boys are not boys,not even men ,just tiny gods scampering on hills in search of Big God,in sacrifice.A red apparel is their sun god intensely burning in standing trees.

Innocence is at stake, in cricket and ludo,a game of dice and chance, a flicker of smile, a wave of mirth surging in the hills like a stream,freshness traded for Big Knowledge.


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