Clouds in the valley...

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

  We had always wanted to see The giant lilies – Amazonica Victoria Another Columbian exchange Hiding in my city’s corner   But every time we went There was disappointment No lilies, not even buds Just lily-pads Gigantic saucers on the pond   When I think of them today though I realise It was never about the lilies But the marbled leaves The sunny days   The prancing jacana The watchful kingfisher And us returning each time To sip from The invisible lily’s nectar   And those pearly drops Shimmering on those leaves – There but not there – Neither belonging to the lake Nor to the lily pads Just like the lilies Tantalisingly slow But hopeful That one day, there will be blooms The garden will glow   Just like ourselves Perhaps still there, waiting Two drops that couldn’t meet the lake Yet shimmering with the sun Smiling at lilies that never were…   10 th April, 2026  ...

'Why are we choosing darkness In the cold of winter?’ You are not amused – After all, we were so far Kissing the hill tops – Bejewelled lookouts awash in sunlight Shining with the gems – Mount Solitary, Megalong Valley And other jewels of the Mountains Blue   Before long, We have descended into the dark Endless stairs heading To the depths of the forest floor We feel the nip - The ravines are moist The ferns drip, the fungi breathe But then, an unexpected gurgle: We have come to Siloam’s Pool   A small waterfall tumbles Onto golden shallow sands And sunlight finds its way To pour upon the pool Like a secondary fall of gold Like a halo, the ravine glows We both know this is a dream And we say not a word   You have already entered The frigid waters that kiss your gasping skin We linger in the amber pool – Even as the light begins to fade For we can feel the magic - As if there are fairies waking to find T...

If you visit Old Bar, You will find another sleepy village: A beautiful coast of gold, The deep turquoise of the sea, A sandbar that resists The Manning’s kiss of the sea And three layers of infinity – Sea, sky and soul Merging in that endless slumber Of the wearied waves But listen carefully - There, beyond the waves Buzzes an airplane Landing here, taking off there The azure skies seem a palimpsest. The old folks smile – They know the whispers Of the phantom we cannot see They point to the grass of emptiness - An airstrip of yesteryear Here, even today The Hawker Demons and Gannets Continue to lift, Charles Smith draws crowds And Nancy Bird inspires generations. But don’t look too closely, The runway parts seldom- And only a few hear a sonic boom, As Old Bar buries its secrets In the murmurs of the endless sea… 5 th April, 2026 Old Bar sits on the Mid North Coast, about 315 km north of Sydney—roughly a 3.5 to 4-ho...

  Every time you got lost, I knew exactly where we could find you - In the labyrinth of books Where countless tales comforted us We were just one more drop In an endless sea   Stories from around the world Left there, As we wandered, Through inky dreams Till we forgot where tales stopped And reality sprang   Sometimes, I wonder Do you still travel to that sea? Do you still drift there on summer noons? I must admit, in my 9-5 job There’s not much time to lose myself Deadlines loom through the day   Sometimes though, on a quiet Sunday I still go in search Of lost souls weaving dreams In a sea within the city’s soot The stalls stay closed, but I see books Tied in bundles, neatly stacked on empty roads…

I  stare at a sea of books – Every lane and by-lane Stacked with used books Ah, that musty, yellow love Strewn across for miles Countless shrines – with wisdom shine   But it is not just sepia pages It is the emotions in those books Trapped forever -   I lift random books And imagine the countless tales That live in every page   A scribble here, a note there Someone understanding the cosmos Then, a dog-ear of delay, Did she pause to look outside the window? Our Charulata? What did she see that the fold remained?   In another book, a flattened rose – Surely not Oshibana? Was it then a love letter? A gift? Forever pressed between chapters lost? A memento of love In a manuscript of maths     An old newspaper’s bookmark, A hastily scribbled phone number, A magazine cut-out of a beautiful face, Or a doodle here, a cartoon there A story within the story - Every memory, an unfinished tale ...