Clouds in the valley...

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 ...

  An old friend passed away today He was genuinely old – Rather too old How he took to the changes of our world I do not know. Perhaps, that is why He befriended children Our last rays of hope   Perhaps every child in this bustling city Was once his friend Until we each grew up; Knowing somewhere in the void Our friend exists, No need to meet We are happy to know Somewhere, he is there   In the midst of all our busy excuses He chose to wait no more; We will carry on But somewhere, the part of us That refused to grow, cries quietly So many friends yet to make But he chose to no longer stay – An old friend quietly passed away today…   28 th March 2026   Dedicated to Adwaita – the Aldabra tortoise at Kolkata Zoo, and the longest living animal ever recorded on Earth. Legends say he was gifted to Robert Clive after his victory at Plassey, making Adwaita over 250 years old – a marvel who was shown by one gen...

  Around a turn, I stop – A massive billowing cloud Sparkles in the blue skies. Lost in my dreams, I tell myself: One day – I will turn thus But not find a cloud It will be a silver peak – Kanchenjunga, Nanda Devi, Machchpuchare The name matters not It will be a man and a massif Someday…   I close my eyes, Am I still here? Creating a future dream Or perhaps, I am already far This moment a living memory It is all a dream of thoughts Connected by threads of existence It is on these strands we walk And pretend to awake – I open my eyes: The clouds have turned to snow And man has turned to mountain…

  Like tear drops Rolling down, The Spanish moss Trickles too - Down branches and twigs Tendrils of longing Holding firmly To the tree of lost love   With time The tree is full Of the old man’s beard Its soul though Still drowns in melancholy As the moss Sobs silently But you and I just see growth – We claim, ah, the art of nature…   19 th March, 2026