Clouds in the valley...

The meadows whisper, We’re not the past that you have known, Not Bald or Bugyal, Yet, beautiful, just on our own. In blades of grass, Hillside songs and dreams are sown: And one day, looking back We too will make you pensive mourn… On many a day, I walk or bike onto a meadowy hill close to my place. Long swathes of soothing green of the meadows are spiked with a line of Bunya Pines, as a few sheep stroll around. Sometimes towards dusk, you can see the western sky blotting sunset scarlet while a few wild rabbits hop around the shrublands at the bottom of the hill. With these sharp memories, Himalayan dreams of the bugyals float from the past while hopeful wishes of conquest look back from the future. The thoughts are inevitable - yet today, under the shadow of the Bunya pines, I began to wonder that perhaps I am not acknowledging the beauty of the hill itself - emerald and jade-pretty, wrapped with history, and similar to the buttresses of the fig trees scattered here, supporting itself...

And what of storms that rage outside The clouds that gather not, Unseen, unheard, yet deep within A chaos that can’t be fought   Like white noise, the thunder gongs The silence of the mind And lightning whips up nimbus dark Outside, the sun is kind   For all these storms that wage within, We wait as with the rain For clouds to drench our worlds anew With drapes of hail and pain   This - the only way the clouds are freed, And with them, are you. Cold, bedraggled, icy world Somewhere – a sunshine blue   Bit by bit, the warmth returns, And then, the west winds chime That you have seen the stormy eye Though you never had a crime   Sometimes, knowing all, life decides To keep shelter away, That you may tell your future self The tales of a rainy day…   12 th December ‘2021

Many of us often end up receiving a fair share of sunrises and sunsets by the sea in the tumultuous span of their lives. Whether we utilize these simple yet grand spectacles, whether we remember these magical moments in time, whether we are grateful enough to look back and smile -  are all very important questions. In those swirling colors that find new expressions in an expansive sky reflected on an immersive sea, lie calming, meditative seconds that can prise open an awakening - a sartori -  in almost anyone. There’s something magical indeed - pastel soft tones draping the end of one chapter, and ushering in a new one - a sunrise yin in bright sunny days and a sunset yang in dark brooding nights. But with age, I have felt preferring sunsets over sunrises. Perhaps, as we grow old, we tend to take refuge in the soothing comfort of the dark when we can choose to be ourselves freely, finding the shimmers of daylight too incandescent or too demanding. A sunset then feels like the...

The brooding clouds are here, they fret La nina soaks us wet, Summer’s sun now drips in rain, El Verano’s lost again No more rasping burn of sand, For drunken is the land, The ruddy earth has turned to green, The rivers, blue unseen And yet, not so very long ago, The world was all aglow, Not aurora or a bright sunrise But cinder filled our skies Days and nights, were furnaced all, The wild left sans a call, No, let summer come in nimbus curled Who wants a burning world? Perspective - smiles the soggy days, As Summer walks the haze - Not of smoke, but dripping mist The rains, a better tryst It is a wet summer again - and whether we like it or not, it is perhaps a blessing in this driest part of the world. Yes, you wake up, and instead of bright mustard sun spread on bluish skies, grey slaty clouds drape summer in rains, but isn’t it far better than waking up and seeing the world continue to burn - as was the case 2 years back, when the gum trees made tinder dry by years of dessication d...

There’s kindness in the gully’s greens Fed by summer’s rains, As the time-stilled photos make me look Beyond the shutter’s lens Images float from the Himalayan hills, As Teesta flows in green, And albums old all come to mind From long ago, unseen Marmoreal rocks, shingled sands, As slopes of jade remind, That for all those pilgrims brave to come,  The hills are always kind The hamlets pass, the Buddha beams, The Coronation shines in pink, While all along, the river gleams  As verdant as you think Prayers fly in fluttering flags, Adventure in a lemon raft, And Teesta weaves without a word,  Dreams for a future draft Which is s’posed to blow in a lacking land That gets deluged one day, For all the rains to splash the tales Of a river from faraway LIke olden love then, you find her face In every drop of green, But Teesta smiles, she doesn’t ask Where all these years you been? I feel jealous of the drizzle drops Unlike them, I don’t know where to flow, But I know I’ll hear th...

Our hotel attendant pulled back three layers of window curtains increasing the build-up to seeing what lay beyond. Zzzzzing, rolled the last diaphanous layer hanging from metal rings on a golden curtain rod. But beyond the large glass windows lay nothing – clouds of thick, foggy tendrils and mists of emptiness had blossomed in the cradle of the hills providing no views except whatever you could imagine. ‘The weather seems pretty bad today, no views of the valleys,’ responded our attendant, eking out a sigh from me. Throughout our trip from Kullu to Manali, I was mesmerised by the verdant heights of the hills and the meanders of the snaking Sutlej. I was hoping to cap it all with that unforgettable view that lights up whenever anyone utters the word ‘Himalaya’ to any sapped out, sleepy city dweller – deep blue skies and snow-clad white peaks glistening in the afternoon sun. Yet, here was I, staring at brooding clouds, veiling the shiny postcards of my anticipation. The attendant...

Sulphur fumes - That strikes a matchstick chord, In rivers of darkness, A beam of light then burns a ford   One by one, Comes lights, lamps, lustre all: Yet beyond, In sparkle shines a shimmering call   Not of light, But that of the reigning dark - ‘Without me, No glint or glare can make a mark’   Intertwined, In one the others’ fate Despite the flame, In light, the dark we celebrate   4 th November, 2021

So, the rule is not to roam as a tourist, but to stay as a resident - that alone gives you the right to actually claim the badge of ‘seeing’ a place. Cosmetic tripadvisor-ed tourism is like eating the first starter course - okay, you have seen the Eiffel Tower and its golden spangles at night-time, and have clicked the must-have selfie in front of the Mona Lisa - but ask yourself, have you actually walked on Parisian streets late at night and seen snowflakes of winter descend to start the first strokes of a white heaven? Besides the tick mark on the Louvre, could you actually go to that old rundown yet delectable house of a Rodin or a Delacroix and imagine the artists bubbling in their creativity ages back? If no, then you have seen but a fleeting glimpse of her veiled face, you have not even brushed her hand, forget about the passionate lip-lock. There is just so much more hidden in the jeweled box of every city that a fast paced week-long stay does little justice - yet, in the timele...

I garnish my spicy mutton kasha with a generous sprinkle of chopped shallot and coriander - having accomplished the magnum opus in bengali non-vegetarian, non-pescatarian cuisine, I have earned my stripes as a genuine Bhojohari Manna (the non-pescatarian disclaimer above is required as nothing comes above bhapa ilish, no not even koraishutir kochuri or a cold winter morning). I must admit, despite my usual modesty, that I have genuinely honed my skills as a chef - it takes me less than half an hour these days to whip up a teriyaki chicken or a pan fried salmon. I guess, with commitment, care and sometimes, a bit of compulsion, one can perfect any work of life. Many of my foodie-fans have often asked me where I learned the finer art of balancing the spices. Indeed, when I look back at where it started, now that is some story to narrate. I did happen to help my mum as an errand-boy in the  kitchen since I was a kid, but the real story starts not in the land of luchi and cholar dal, b...