Clouds in the valley...

Red hills punctured By colours of the para-glides: Beautiful confetti-like, sailing In the hot skies of Kamshet But the convection currents Thus harnessed, they always returning Sometimes, when I look back I wish, all friendships could paraglide - Lift on thermals, soar far away Get pulled by clouds, soar and sink But in between, return to cliffs of life To talk together at end of day But our journeys are no paraglide, We prefer the speed of jets Soar away, in sonic success In contrails of ambition The skies left behind, still the same But empty, and a little less The paraglides still twist and turn In these hills of yesterday; The same red cliffs, warming sun. Sometimes, a stray-thought visitor comes But finds only shadows And living memories that don’t return… 1 st January, 2026   Kamshet, in the Western Ghats, is a paradise for paragliding and nature lovers. Its red hills, valleys, and colorful skies offer breathtaking views, ...

  Introduction from my latest anthology, based on my backyard garden As I sit in my small backyard garden, staring at its green, grassy refuge, I sometimes feel — fancifully — like an older, more settled Ruskin Bond. It is a privilege even to entertain such a thought. I do not live in a bungalow nestled in the hills I long for, nor have I abandoned ordinary life for the mountains. That audacity, and the success born of it, belongs to the true writer in the hills.   And yet, the analogy begins and ends with something simpler. I can sit in my enclosed patch of green — my imaginary Dehra — watching white clouds morph into snow-capped mountains, and write. Not the Himalayas, perhaps, but a rectangle of earth connected, somehow, to the wider neural network of nature. Enough to bring calm, serenity, and the courage to write a line or two.   This collection is born from that patch of serenity: my garden, its hidden nooks and corners, the cyclical throes of the seasons, and t...

  Kaas was beautiful But it was a compromise. I had yearned for the Himalaya - Govindghat and Ghangharia The ‘real’ Valley of flowers; Instead, plans cancelled, you brought me To Satara: Kaas A plateau of flowers   ‘Poor man’s Valley,’ I grumbled While you meandered Through a melange Of pink and yellow: Barleria, Smithia, orchids And many more: Monsoon’s melancholy Surprising in colours   After a long sulky walk, You urge: ‘Can you restart from Zero?’ The fault sometimes, you explained Was the start, not the count itself. ‘If you keep thinking of Himadri, The Sahyadri will pass by unnoticed – Here, even Frank Smythe would be mesmerised…’   The grey clouds were the wrapper The colours were boxed inside And I was hesitant To open the gift of melancholy; The beautiful tapestry A test of monsoon clouds, I had failed both as painter And as subject   Years later, not digital But your postcard ...

  If this were a gathering Of old friends, Imagine the stories That would be exchanged – Coal tippers, oil tankers, Cattle carriers, Biscuit traders, Even prison movers, Queen heralders: Stories that made a nation Built its backbone, united the factions (And even the gauges)   Like old brooding minds Recalling good times Of bygone days The sooty plumes of past So hard to bring back – The age of steam, then of fuel Chapters changing, Over a hundred years: Now, the old friends, wearied, Wonder what could have been different   The senescence hangs heavy As you walk past Yellowed pages that somehow Still hold together in a musty portfolio A few wonder though, What’s the point? Being treasured in a reliquary When the outside world Has changed so much? What place there is for rusted past?   Until a few visitors pass by Some amazed at the antiquity Others curious of the behemoths Many stopping to read...

Here at Birubi, if you can, Climb atop a dune of sand – Then feel the waves, not of sea, But silica coursing through your hand If your heart is pure, these sacred lands Will speak to you through every grain, You can hear a time from long before The world, a youth, a window-pane And the shifting sands will whisper soft In our shapelessness lies all our might This too is freedom, don’t you see? What is it then, that you hold so tight? I understand, liberty cannot be bound It is more alive in the dunes of sand, So I try to break the chains I hold, I bleed myself, I quench this land Somewhere in the dark, collapses all The tunnels of time, the sacred space And I see myself surrounded by The ancient elders of the Worimi race They nod in approval, I have set it free I have become worthy of the Southern Cross Their starlight pales  me in silver wash An eagle now, I know no loss My dreams break with a crash of the sea, I am stil...

  These caves - an embalmed capsule of time The chaitya - a channel in space For here, in this kingdom of stone Monks, monarchs, maidens Equalled in rock, are forever trapped In a Deccan dot, deep unknown   Sometimes though, if you stay behind (A mystic meditating in his mind) Long after the day-trippers are gone You may feel, with the dusky sun Yourself rooting with the basalt base The same old world, now newly born   You’ll hear the stupa breathe with age You can feel the wooden brolly hum While lonely murmurs come to life Of marmoreal men, mendicants Their Yavan lores from lands afar, In times that will now never come   The amorous Mithuns lock their lips You can feel them wet upon your skin Their moonlit love, musky deep Brings life to rocks that never sleep The caves not dead for a single day A subtle life, felt when you look but far away   Now, a cold wind blows As melancholy floats from distant l...

  The Karli Caves, located near Lonavala in Maharashtra, are ancient Buddhist rock-cut caves dating back to around the 2nd century BCE. They are best known for the Great Chaitya (prayer hall), one of the largest and best-preserved examples of early Buddhist architecture in India, featuring a massive horseshoe-shaped entrance and a towering stupa inside. The cave complex showcases finely carved pillars, intricate wooden-style rock carvings, and inscriptions donated by traders and rulers, reflecting the strong link between Buddhism and ancient trade routes. The Karli Caves highlight the artistic skill and religious life of early Buddhist communities in western India. The Great Chaitya’s pillars still bear carvings of couples and donors, showing that lay people, including merchants and women, played a major role in its construction—unusual for that period. Another remarkable detail is the survival of original wooden beams on the ceiling and a wooden umbrella symbolising Buddha, maki...

  It was the sheer height, That August day– Thundering down, Towering pillar, Rainwater’s test Weekend’s Monsoon at its best Others made An agitated queue Of adrenaline, But You chose to walk away, No need to scale Dudhiware   Acrophobia, you justified Tallest falls around here No need to dare Yes, every human right you had To display fear, your mortal scare But before I could even convince you You looked stunned I knew those eyes that never lied Already broken, Something crumbled deep inside   I followed your eyes Twin falls, you muttered Almost as if They are no longer streams But the crying hills, with broken dreams I looked behind Indeed, not one Dudhiware was two, Tears streaming down the hills But somewhere else, melancholy fills Look, you dreamed away Pool of bundled tears This is how the hills, they bleed And who else but us who note? Their ilk, their pensive creed You needed courage no mor...

  Cable car disappears Into the greyed melancholy Of monsoon clouds;   You stare for long And decide This cannot be the way ‘Is this the valour The Marathas would expect of us?’   I didn’t want to walk, I persisted I failed   'What would Chhatrapati say?’ Shortcut Shivaji, I humoured He wouldn’t mind, If you could win At any cost   But you smile ‘You have to earn it – your victories – The only way the flag unfurls on the top…’   So, we marched Up the thousand stairs A grey, basalt test, Like thousands before us Earning the walk   Through mossy slithers Uncaring cascades Slips, cuts and falls   At the top, Chhatrapati stared I wondered how would he measure our victory I wanted to ask but you were lost Gazing at grey tarps   That covered the skies Ah – that magic of the monsoons That melancholy before the rains   The memories come back Years later ...

  Wisps of monsoon threads Waft dreamily Like a moving veil A burnished moon – First amber’s dusk, Now nights of silver pale   And to stand atop this fort Makes you wonder Alone, left behind, Where intertwines Reality with The mists of a moonlit mind   For I clearly see In the Komorebi Of silver shine and black Brave soldiers Climbing, crawling   Longing for this stronghold back   Like arachnids They clamber With sword and shield and knife- See carefully, behold: Monitor lizards pull the troops As the fables come to life   Can you hear now? The bells that ring For the walls are breached And the war begins - The defenders awakened, Surprised, and beseeched   At the very top Now fires burn The Mavala – Mughal spars, The fort is won, Alas, the Lion lost Upon these very stars   Quietness again As winds of peace Blow with moistened love Memories of the monsoon mus...

  What is a beach, That has no sea? ‘Shallow is The seaside shelf’ But do wayfarers care Ever at all Over blue sea, A gentle shelf?   Bordi turns A funny beach Patinated gold, Somnolent sands But no waves caress These weary feet, That wait beneath The Casuarina stands   And yet, you’ll find A bunch of friends Sitting in The shades of trees A humid Saturday Filled with talks, Seas don’t matter Just the breeze   Some sojourns May not work your way But friends that laugh – Keep them close Especially if, They celebrate Whichever way The journey goes   Did Bordi deject? We wondered, Perhaps that day But times passes by In decades, years Sitting alone, Even an empty sea Will eke a sigh   The true essence Of a journey then Are distilled memories, From the future long ‘Do you remember when The seas turned back?’ A conversation starts, A distant song…   ...

That winter's day When you couldn’t believe your eyes – Those were The best sands we had chased On the Konkan Coast White grey silica Shimmering in the sun, squeaky clean, And the waters, Oh the waters - Transparent blue Teeming with fins, starfish And hermit crabs Even the boisterous sea Calmed like a philosopher here, Thought ripples Replacing the restive waves Diveagar - Unlike any beach Of course, you were surprised Was this even real? ‘Doesn’t it look like a beach from someplace else Somewhere away?’ That day, indeed We were someplace else, somewhere away It was the dream to return to When reality would disappoint And banality would break our everyday Or perhaps, it was The only sliver of reality Offering a sacred peek Awaiting softly, silently When and if, this dream Ever runs out of The murmur of waves, You and I, so far away Yet together even now Walking the sands Trapped in a moment of perp...

  Fort of ruins, Bassein today is a lonely place But beneath the cobwebs, Broken ribs, You will find, It once saw better days   This was perhaps Where Bombay was born A Portuguese stronghold In the Arabian Sea Before Goa, after Diu Another pearl the coasts adorn   Fort to a city Then dowry of an island stack The isles fused The British arrived, The Parsees thrived Bombay, Mumbai never looked back   But the city has sprawled Now too far away Speedy city never stops, Almeida? Albuquerque? Who has time Don’t they belong to yesterday?   A lot remains, but no one cares – A slow Vasai left behind, A story of stone Waits alone One day again When time may be kind…   12 th December, 2025