Clouds in the valley...

We couldn’t go to the glacial lake that day, The snowy valleys, clad in white Reminded, what had we missed Frozen lake, in earth’s upper altitudes   I was naturally upset, But you could only laugh ‘But we were not supposed to go!’ you chimed ‘These are God’s lands   ‘They allow only those Who are worthy, deserving of the destination’ Undeserving me, was not amused, We had come so far only for the lake   ‘Today’s lesson is not white’ And you persisted with my stubbornness, Fingers in my tousled hair, You whispered, ‘Colours, don’t you see?’   As if in Divine intervention, A fire-tailed sunbird came from nowhere Showering rainbows on its track ‘It is showing us the way,’ you laughed   And we walked around pointlessly in pursuit As you pointed out rhododendrons In hidden shadowy corners Blooms of a hundred hues     ‘There, and there, and there’ you were euphoric, Showing colours I would never see The orange bills of blue magpies The hues of fluttering pra...

  Samar (Arabic, noun): staying up late after the sun has gone down and having an enjoyable time with friends   I savour my tea in brown solitude, The warmth in those sugary sips of few, Dissolve the weariness of the day – Ah! Sweet little joys, how I yearn for you   But as the sun goes down, I see in violet skies, a lonely star, And I realise - there are two cups of tea to be had, Their sweetness rests on who you are   One, like this evening’s brew Sweet solitude, in a strong cup of chai Unwinding yourself, you reel through the day The good and the sad, the low and the high   The other, is for company Brewed in a saucepan batch for a few Tea that cares not for perfection, Not sweetness, tannin or that book-cover hue   That tea is tea, not for the taste That tea is bonding, perhaps with the best Like-minded souls, all-forgiving friends The evening turns a Friday, sundown a fest   You can buy the...

  Gurfa (Arabic, noun): the amount of water than can be held in one hand   Imagine - if we had to select our lives To fit in a fistful, Just enough to be held In a cloud’s dream What would you choose? Your love for mountains? That Alpenglow in Munsiyari? Sunrise on the Nanda Devi?   We have been through so much Yet, your love so untarnished I am sure if you squelch the mud Pure water would remain Glacial clean, refreshing Meltwater drizzling Just like the spring In Yuksom’s pristine hills   As for me, I can only shine As a new moon’s night The Yin on the other side of the hills; Perhaps, a pool also remains But not the same – Undrinkable, a Gurfa of saltwater From all the lagoons we didn’t see In concealed valleys and unseen eyes…   26 th Feb’2025

  I stop on my walk, And look above: beneath blue skies Autumn’s first leaves Have begun to blush   And I hear your voice From a distant past, asking Joy at the first leaves of Spring, Why not the first of Autumn?   Hopes of Uttarayan, I had said But here, in the southern lands We were headed into darkness Colder nights, maples flush   Picking a red leaf, you had said The colours of aging autumn Deserve as much love As the hues of youthful spring   That dark days need to be loved How else will they know That somewhere beyond shadows Lie a land of light   (I have often wondered If the red leaf is still bookmarked In your Rumi, Or have you finally finished the book?   What would he have espoused? That colours are for broken shards? That those who are divine Know just one – His blinding white?)   I cannot agree any more today Autumn needs more love Be it in a forgiving heart ...

  Hiraeth: Wales or Welsh: deep longing for something, especially one's home Inspired by songs of Lucky Ali – and Youtube comments of listeners longing for the 90s of our childhood days, way simpler and more human than anything ever will be   Perhaps because I am here removed Into these distant lands I feel, I can always board a ship and sail Far from these golden sands   A false consolation, I give myself And to my dreamer heart Which thinks that it can return always Back to the very start   Alas, there is also the wheel of time that moves Besides the seas that shift The past is past, in a bottle locked Now far away adrift   It is only when I hear of hearts Still back at home, in song – Longing for our cherished past That I know something is wrong   If those at port, too long and pine, For a harbour safe and sound There is no place left to steer this ship, Home’s no longer to be found   Then thro...

  For a few minutes, we are all transfixed - A spotted tragopan on the bush Looks back at us with its scarlet plumes In the early morning Himachal sun.   I don’t bother to grab my camera from the car: By the time I will adjust the F-stop, It will have flown away – I watch it through the only lens that matters   One jagged movement of arm from my friend And the tragopan has disappeared Such is the transience of beauty in the hills – Snowy peak or satyr pheasant, teach the same lesson   Does Amar Singh realise this as well? Huddled within himself, scarf rolled around his head, He looks around, at lofty mountains, The deep ravines of Sutlej, and of course, the tragopan   Till yesterday, he hated us for trickery: Dangling the carrot of Shimla, we had dragged the poor driver From the confines of his comfortable Delhi But had broken our words in wanderlust   We had moved him to scale the dusty roads To Chindi, then even worse, to Jalori Broken serpentine roads, d...

  Five prayags swirl In the heart of my Garhwal hills, Where meltwater drips from dizzying heights Come down, to the hillside valleys Far from the dreams of the snowline whites   Akin to Ganga Herself, Descending from the heavens Onto the matted locks of the Neelkantha Then to these mortal lands and days To cleanse us all of our worldly ways   Panch Prayag, they say Swirling colours of blue and green Join Alakananda’s quest from Satopanth To form the sapphired line That runs through the breadth of our lands divine   Each confluence a pilgrimage That reminds us of our mortal selves Even as we brace immortality Through the timelessness of Ganga’s grace And the eternity of the hills’ embrace   It is in the fifth junction, Devprayag That Alakanada meets Bhagirathi And the Ganga is born, but does it matter, even at all? Follow any tributary to the heaven’s lakes And we redeem ourselves in the mountains’ call ...

  We cannot, nor need not, always Be heroes in our own tale, Somewhere, the story needs us to stumble, For the Hero also needs to fail   With broken hearts and bleeding arms We too can stumble, weep and fall Perhaps because our stories are intertwined And someone else, needs to stand up tall   There are chapters too, where we Are mere spectators, unbelievably How can we not lead the way, show the world The true heroes that we ought to be   Alas, such is the omnibus of our lives, We keep writing each day a page The sun sets - we lose, we watch As we turn old, now more wise, and sage   Until one day, we realise - Our heroism was not in our own fight But in showing others newer paths That they leave their darkness for our light   That, to stand back and lose was also a win For heroes have each their songs - And the heroism was in the divine grace To let others right their human wrongs…   15 th ...

  (Culacinno – Italian:  The ring left on a table from a moist glass)   On dried days as these, we say The Glass is empty - But is it not a wonder still - Patterns as in our life, silicate, sparkling Bedek the holder of our dreams   It is still empty, you say But what stops you from filling it? With your tears and prayers With your hopes and promises Of cooled water on a summer’s day   The water – that will always be gone But look closely, my friend There’s hearts of moisture Clinging to the glass A sheen of mist to hide the truth   There’s hues of your carmine lips That graced the glass not long back Ridges of your tender finger tips Imprinted on the glass – And you still think of emptiness?   And even if one day, the glass be taken, Lost, vanquished, splintered Look again, a faint trace Of Culacinno reassure The heart is filled forever every day…   6 th Feb’ 2025

I see Kanchenjunga from the backyard: Despite summer’s heat, Peacefully slumbers the Sleeping Buddha Tucked in a cotton sheet of snow And I float in its highland dreams That of mountain peace, The evergreen smell of Darjeeling And Teesta-Rangeet’s green   Closer on my wicker table Makaibari’s autumn flush brews in Borosil While Dalrymple’s latest Urges to travel forward on the Golden Road I smile – this deserves An invisible pat on the wearied back, But I am too languid Ah! the cries of the cicada’s summer   Hours pass by – or are these minutes? The mountains seem to induce A sense of timelessness in their gaze – Where’s the rush?   Kabru smiles This is eternity in a second, Pandim whispers Lose yourself, farther and farther away,   says Simovo But Kanchenjunga says not a word It knows the illusion we all are     A fire-tailed sunbird flits away - The reverie melts like sugar in my tea And the ta...