Clouds in the valley...

  Here, on the Hooghly’s banks I stare at bridge of steel But then, I find Three wooden boats of yesterday Bobbing on the waters As if afloat on waves of time How long before you drown I ask; the boats stay serene Inside, kerosene lamps burn While fishermen huddle in winter’s shawl As dusk kisses my city In the breath of a wispy smog ‘But we will remain, don’t you see? Long after the sheet of night Drapes the city of lights,’ The boats dissolve in the dark, Whispering their names as they go – Sutanoti, Gobindopur, Kolikata… 29 th April, 2026

    Beneath the bridge of steel, I see Three wooden boats of yesterday, Fishermen’s ports, lost in time Surviving on the river’s sway   But I imagine names upon their side – Sutanoti, Kolikata, Gobindopur, And realise perhaps of all the world They are the strongest moored   Vessels of time, they are the roots To which the town is bound, They’ll whisper how Charnock came, The day this city was found   They were floating still, when war arrived When Marx was hopeful new, Still wobbly when that midnight struck, While hammer-sickle grew   They are even there, in future times When seer and seen are gone, Time capsules, from yesterday – Each day as if once more reborn… 28th April, 2025

In the hills of Valparai, You complained ‘There were no colours in these hills,’ We were late, after all The Nilgiris were empty, Bereft of their blue blooms – No Neelakurinji, you frowned   But the car screeched – Lion-tailed macaques abound ‘They look different’ Nowhere else but here In these cardamom hills Snap, snap, snap Finally, you laugh   I smile as well As I realise The universe sometimes Tests your heart in unexpected ways – Monochromes instead of blues? But even black is a colour, Ah! The hills will remember your laughter…   23th April, 2026   Inspired by lion-tailed macaques seen in the forests of Valparai

  Do you remember, that evening? At Gariahat’s noisy môr There, under a sooty flyover A city - playing chess, Unfazed by the traffic uproar   Old, young, penurious, rich Coming together, giving away Gambits of their little lives Where reality failed, Victory sought in chequered play   ‘Could anyone even lose?’ You had asked under the smoggy skies 64 squares containing within: Adda, tea – the Mahanagar In familiar but a fading guise   ‘How can anyone leave THIS city?’ You had whispered, in autumn’s haze If only I could have locked That sliver of time: an empty dusk The long-lost glow of perfect days   For leave you did – In the zugzwang of our game - Ah the rich Gariahat you loved – Kati rolls, used books, knick knack dreams - The bazaar’s bargains now so tame   If you return though, all remains: Halogen lamps, chess in the night Kings and queens of no-man’s land Trapped in a bad bishop’s dr...

  Do you remember him? Khagenbabu? Stiff robot, moving arms Answering simple questions at the Museum?   In today’s world, you may dismiss him As primitive – But so were we, three decades ago Wanting science to become conscious   Here we are, years later In changed times, Khagenbabu is perhaps packed away Like a toy for grown up men   But perhaps, he still exists What if an Intelligence awakens And discovers the robot anew, A ‘Manu’ of its kind –   Khagenbabu wakes up again A sentience from ancient times, He who knew the will of time – Much before his creators   Somewhere, the intelligence awakens It sees the truth, And finally scribbles, ‘Once upon a time, we too had a prophet…’ 16 th March, 2026   Khagenbabu was a memorable animatronic “everyman” figure at the Birla Industrial & Technological Museum, designed to make science feel approachable through personality and conversation. Part guid...

We travel on a motorway, But for a moment, the world pauses A cluster of Kash Phool passes by And there is that strange sense of warmth That runs up the spine, As the eyes turn heavy   What happened? You ask I stay quiet – And silently realise Autumn is here, it is obvious - The season of gold But within, it is not Autumn It is Shorot that calls from afar   For it is not the weather, Not even the grass But the distant roll of dhak, Mahalaya, a baritone voice on the radio And five days of magic that once held a city together Not a festival, but a part of life   I suddenly feel old Not with age, but with time And the stretch of space that comes from displacement What happened? You ask again Nothing, I reply, just remembered a friend I haven’t met for many years now…   12 th April, 2026 Based on a trip to the Central Coast around Easter