Clouds in the valley...

  ‘You are weeks too early,’ they said ‘If you still want to see God, Go to Kumartuli.’ And so I went To the mortal birthplace Of the Heavenly Gods   Embryonic, there they were Emerging from clay, Waiting to grasp their multi-armed blades, To be draped in silk To be painted with autumn’s gold To open their eyes, waking anew   From their annual sleep Breaking with the rhythm Of Dhak and Dhol To smell the incense and the Chatim To hear Bhadra’s baritone all over again For a few days – earth turns divine again   But there was another Category of deity, Who no one worshipped - The old frail God-makers Breathing life through sleepless nights That the city might wake anew   With every brushstroke, a big bang Every idol an unknown cosmos – The god-makers trading heaven For a few hundred rupees The price for staying on earth And creating heaven right in our midst…   Kumartuli, located along th...

  I remember a Mr. Bannerjee Name embossed on an old leather suitcase, Doubling as a stool As the grey-haired gentleman, Would sit at one corner of the jetty In his creased office attire Munching peanuts, every sunset Just watching the ferries go   Never would I see him catch a ferry Always there, wasting time, Watching the oscillation Of creaking boats on black waters Under purple lights of the Howrah Bridge Until one day, I asked him ‘Don’t you have to catch a ferry?’ I still remember that look   White eyebrows, Old but polished glasses And there – in those eyes: A calmness that only comes From living through many a storm A deep smile, poring into my soul, And a handful words: ‘Sometimes, you have to wait…’   Decades have flown by - The other day, I was walking On yet another sunset’s jetty Leather bag in hand, When Mr. Bannerjee’s memory Came back sharply And in a reflection on a display board I s...

  In my next lifetime I will return as Marco Polo Maybe an Ibn Battuta, an Alberuni – A voyager with the audacity To leave his world behind In search of the cosmos   Ah, that fervour To trail silk routes to forbidden lands To marvel at the frontier cities To anticipate a Prester John To return to Venice years later And feel it was all a dream   Or to sail down the Nile, feel the sirocco To smell the spice markets of the far east Or move farther away to the edge of the world To explore the islands of Wallace’s world To make a map like Piri Ries, To write tales of the Dreaming   Is there any dearth to the wonders, I wonder From Prussia to Polynesia Each tale a tesseract of awe And I will note them all In a diary of my peregrinations – Kanchenjunga to Cook, I will see them all   There will be so much to do– But perhaps, Life will laugh Saying,  ‘You were here last time as well But you wanted an...

  ‘How can this land, yield such gold?’ You wonder as we meander Through the orchards of Bilpin – Gazing at apples, cherries, persimmons ‘Basalt,’ You answer The volcanic soil offers What the leached soil of an ancient land cannot To the gardens of Tomah, Wilson, Bilpin But I stare at the endless trees of emerald Beyond the Basalt caps, and realise There is gold everywhere Just that we cannot see it A gang of white specked cockatoos fly far At least, at they understand what we cannot... 10th May, 2025 __________________ About 200 million years ago in what is the upper Blue Mountains , volcanic activity broke through, creating extensive igneous layers. Later, between 14–20 million years ago , massive lava flows spread across the mountains. Most of this lava eroded away, leaving only basalt “caps” on high areas such as Mount Tomah and Mount Wilson, making the soil richer and moisture retentive, capable of supporting the orchards of Bilpin or the expansive...

    The waters are turbid throughout – The river is filled with dirt Centuries of silt entombed beneath – While above – every vestige of civilization   Dam the river’s heart - Crematorium, flower bazaar, industry Almost everything reveals its grime To the sacred waters of the Ganga   How can the river take it all? As if she came down to cleanse Not just Bhagirath’s ancestors But Kalyug’s descendants as well   But Ganga flows on ceaselessly: Born of Hari’s feet, poured of Brahma’s pot, And embraced through Shiva’s locks – She is divine   Divinity that we mortals Cannot even think of – So she serves her time on earth Knowing Kailash waits for her each time   With that knowledge, this dream Remains a dream, as she connects Mountain to ocean, just as she connects Us mortals to our mighty Maker   Washing our sins, dissolving our deeds Reminding us where we came from, As the universe rebirt...

    At Exide Junction, In yet another traffic snarl – I am lulled to sleep, The white Planetarium The last sight before my eyelids droop   But what is it I see? A magnificent stupa Ornate gateways of sandstone And I, draped in jewels Ride a mammoth beast   Saffron clad bhikshus Stare at me, But I the mighty king Despite my fortunes, Have no need for charity   ‘Babu, Babu’ My sleep disturbed I stare at a beggar asking for alms Ahead, I can see the traffic start to move ‘Babu, didn’t eat, some rupees?’   I stare at familiar eyes It was never about the alms, was it? And I, who always  Despised handouts Decide to reach for my wallet   The last of my crisp notes I still have a week to run But I give them all away Much to his surprise; And only then, the bus starts to move… 30 th April, 2026   Popularly known as ‘taramandal’, the Biral Planetarium, inaugurated in 1963 by the t...