Clouds in the valley...

At the end of every wearied day, I see your painting grey, And often wonder what would be If you were here today   Would you have been a commoner Just like one of us? Paying loans, stuck on a job, Commuting in a bus   Could you escape this endless race – Of survival, its quest? Would you look back and whisper soft That zamindari was the best?   Would you have time, to pen Gora, Could you write Kabuliawala? Would Yeats find your Gitanjali, Or Ray, Charulata?   Could you even find the melancholy The fuel to your song? In today’s world of broken rules, Would your unrequited love be wrong?   Could you remain the brightest star In this neon world of lights? Or would your pen have dried out too In the tiring daily fights   I look at you, you do not speak But I think I know it all - Buds bloom too, on cloudy days Bright too are leaves of Fall   In every world that you would grace, Awoke ...

Spring arrives with a bag of hues, Sprayed like confetti, As if winter’s end awoke Him well, The Artist now set free   But of all the colours that I see From the vantage of my room, Is a shade of purple, lilac soft Fused with a tinge of gloom   For the jacarandas have blossomed all They have begun to sing Can you hear the lavender-filled notes, The symphony of Spring?   This city has a long-lost tryst A romance of yesteryear, With a tree that came from faraway Each equinox to cheer   Come October then, avenues Those boulevards of old Turn bright and youthful one more time, When jacarandas they behold   And winter’s empty streets of cold Turn amethyst in peace Archways shade the city’s lanes, With wonders that don’t cease   For once, the forests flanking us Give us a lonely smile, Something done right, as jacarandas Erupt mile after mile   (I ponder sadly when I think I have seen ...

    The village artist had gone insane, Everyone said Bhola, the master sculptor Had lost it Ever since he had cast a Vishnu in bronze Intricate, handsome Reclining on the serpent of time, In His celestial dreams   Eyes closed, in yoganidra Vishnu was creating another universe It was magnificent All agreed, The best that Bhola had ever made But like all masterpieces, It had changed the creator Bhola was in delirium   So realistic and perfect Vishnu’s form That now the sculptor Wanted his deity to come to life ‘It’s just an idol,’ ‘It’s made of metal,’ ‘Get back to making pots, idiot’ But Bhola was determined   He had to bring Vishnu alive And he roamed like a madman. The village priest, The district pujari Had all given up But not the artist – He asked every traveller, Passerby, caravan   Until one day, A wandering yogi Came over, Bhola, already in mourning, Stricken with hunger, thirst and melancholy Found a new ray of hope ‘But it will extract a price.’ t...

  It was a dewy morning, At a small hillock Amidst the pine-trees of Shoja. The day before, We had accompanied On opposite ways A wild and young Sutlej As we ascended the hills. And Shoja, a pit-stop Turned to be a destination on its own   That morning. We had heard the call That of pheasants And we waited at the hill-top Me, anxious, excited Would it be a Kalij? A Monal? Or a blood-red tragopan I waited, with bated breath Looking around for feathers To accompany the melody   We waited for Over an hour But there were no pheasant, I was restless now, Almost anxious How could we come this far, This high, And not spot the Himalayan birds? No, that was not acceptable From the hills of wonder   ‘Have you noticed Autumn descend slowly In those hills?’ My friend, sage and calm asked I hadn’t – But what a sight to behold Magical dapples of orange Had created a mosaic In these hillside woodlands...

In the seedy streets of the kingdom, I walk by – And find, to my annoyance A shrouded man, dancing in chaos and bliss Perhaps drunk, intoxicated too I try to avert him , But through his hood, he sees me And moves around me like a planet To   a dismal sun   His unabashed dance Makes me ask, Why this hideous dance? I sense a smile beneath the hidden shrouds And he replies, A king is born, No, not a king, a god No, not even a god but Vishnu himself. Why shouldn’t I dance?   How do I know? he continued I see His entire life – he replies - Past present and future, And know what lies in store – I know a God when I see one. I ask with surprise ‘Are you a God yourself?’ Here, he stops dancing, shakes his head And reveals his hood   He whispers, Not a God but cursed by one I hold my breath as I glare at his face, A crow, a dancing crow Who could sense the presence of Gods I am Kakbhushandi And I dance i...

  I still remember - It was on the way To the Vedanta Ashram, Swamiji’s school of dreams That I had seen For the last time Nanda Devi – That marbled godly glimpse   Nanda, Sunanda Didn’t whisper back That spirit of Kumaon Stern and hard, Yet, the artist-pilgrim Inside said, Come back Painter, Come back bard   I wonder when Can I reverse That descent that day To Champawat, To climb Bugyals, Rishiganga’s gorge Then the heavens at Nanda, Badrinath   To smell the blooms Of Smythe’s Valley, To smell the trail Of the leopard snow, To see the snow plumes Float again, As the peaks catch fire In the sunset glow   Gangotri’s melt Comes this far The glacial teal Has turned to black, But there is faith, Himalayan hope, That we both shall One day be back   Even if we sail To faraway lands, Even if we cross The Seven Seas The mother forgives The prodigal child, Nanda Dev...