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...