Clouds in the valley...

‘Where exactly are you?’ It was my Manager at work. At 1 pm, I had not yet landed for work. He was worried. No, not for myself, but for the turnover target for the month. And I couldn’t blame him. Nor could I blame myself. For not getting down at my bus-stop next to my Office on the Bypass. For continuing to sit on the red and yellow minibus as it traversed outside Mahanagar Kolkata to some nondescript mofussil area that I never knew existed. For walking in the refreshing green fields and meadows, for breathing the air that smelled not of vendor negotiations nor inspection deadlines, for playing marbles with the children, and then, finally for heading to the Maidan, the one place that I could go to, without constraints, any time of the day, any day of the year. It was, after all, my Pensive Point. ‘I have not been well,’ I replied sombrely, as I lay spread-eagled on the green grass of the Maidan, my brown leather bag, imbibed with office notes, making for a very good pillow. A p...

It has been months now, A pale ochre lamp has become my morning sun. The world has changed, they say It limps in peace, and there’s nowhere to run.   Fortunately, my winter shawl remains the same It offers some solace in darkened green, Everything else is bathed in grey, Or in the darkness, better still, cannot be seen.   The Buddha on my desk says, in all your solitude, You have immersed in deeper melancholy And I say, isn’t it only natural, intrinsic? To slowly sink in deep - a life of gravity.   Solitude is a boon at times, it gives you space To see yourself in its purest form, Raw, imperfect, and a sadness deep That can raise within, a thousand storm   But I assure Him, this melancholy has its lustre too It’s not all dark like a lump of pain – In all its tears, it celebrates And its emptiness fills you up again.   And once you know you are callused strong, The pretentious world impacts you none, You look ...

I was in a dilemma, a big dilemma. (Though when I look back, it looks quite insignificant, such are the illusions of time). I had qualified for one of the better business schools in the country, after a half-hearted, half year of preparation. Now I had two options – the usual ones, take it or leave it. I could have taken the golden option, be content with the great education and opportunity - it was after all a great institution, though not Ivy League. Or take my chances and try writing the exam yet again the next year – with the additional risk of failing altogether. It was not everyday that one aced perhaps one of the toughest entrance exams in the world, statistically speaking in terms of success ratio. It was at this point that I decided to reach out to the director of the training institute I used to go to. He was a paunchy fellow, with an ever-present smile, that made it easier to ask the hardest questions. It was a wet spring evening as I entered the Camac Street office in...

There was something ‘bout that sandstone seat, Once carved by convict hands - That spoke of memories and love, Exiled in foreign lands For there she was, who used to stroll These garden rocks for long, And hum and sing with melancholy, Perhaps a Gaelic song   And though they say, she lingered here For she loved its pretty views – There was something deeper, more than just The gorgeous harbour hues   For she had left her home afar, And crossed the seven seas, Knowing future dreams would fail To match her memories   And when you leave your heart behind, The world is emptiness There’s liberty in a new-found land, Yet the taste is so much less!   So, she would wait for hours all day, To be the first to see, The ships that came with news from home To the austral colony   The tourists yell, the reverie breaks, Yet I stare into the chair, And deep within my soul perhaps More timeless words I hear:  ...

Windy. Incredibly, breathlessly windy. If there was one word that could epitomise the journey onboard the Inter-islander, it was ‘windy’. I was aboard the ferry services connecting Wellington to Picton, crossing over 90 km of the Cook Strait, and was being blown away, literally, by the roaring forties. My journey started in Wellington - the small but gorgeous capital of New Zealand, the southernmost capital city in the world and also, the windiest city on Earth (no, it’s not Chicago!) The reason being its location right on the Cook Strait, the narrow passage between the mountains of the North and South Islands of New Zealand that channels the already tempestuous winds into a sort of violent wind tunnel, resulting in 60kmph winds for half the year in the windy capital. Imagine then, the situation in the open waters of the strait, the winds having a field day, while I was fighting a dilemma to stay warm and cosy inside the vessel, or remain outside on the deck, face the chilling wind...