Clouds in the valley...

  At the lookout of the Brother North, I turned some wiser more, While far below, North Haven shone With its waters, sands, and shore   The neighbouring inlet waters stood Peaceful, silent, mild Though not far, the Pacific roared Its waters, insane wild   For, at Camden Haven Inlet’s mouth, Were built breakwaters three, Sentinels that silent stood In rocks, concrete, and scree   And these in turn, helped break the rage Of waves and salty tide, The madness contained far away, The insanity denied   But you could only see the picture full From the lookout far above, While on the ground, the village stood Oblivious in love   And I wondered then, of our lives as well, Similar, not very grand - A silent haven, passing creek, A sea and shore of sand   And breakwaters in that life as well Many we cannot see, But standing quietly in border-lands Fighting the tides of sea   While placid f...

  I often wondered Why you kept staring At that one of eight symbols At Rumtek’s ruddy walls ‘Its an endless knot,’ You had said, tracking Your slender figures Over the thick brush strokes Of the knot, while I Could only think of Van Gogh   You never relooked At the others, did you? Equally impressionist in my eyes Not conch shell or golden fish (I don’t remember the rest) But there you were, Tracing eternity Over and over again At that loop of endlessness Bereft of smile or sorrow   Then, your realisation ‘How many times, have we been On these crossroads? How many more Before we realise It will never end. Endlessness Timelessness Circular Eternal….’   An old photo wedged As a bookmark In an old Sikkim guide Took me to that junction again And only now do I realise The value of your thoughts How many times had we Walked away, How many times had we Thought we will return?   A...

  I stare at A bunch of unopened books, Quietly entombed In their parcel posts. No, not tsundoku – This is even worse. The books have not even Been taken out of their shrouds.   But I look at them again And wonder, How strangely they remind us Of our own selves – Our true visages - Hidden, locked away deliberately As the world gets to see An ugly shroud   Our true values Never seen, even read But parcelled away Awaiting a perfect moment When a perfect world Has the perfect time To read our perfect pages Alas, don’t we know the truth?   That the perfect moment Will never come And we will continue to conceal Tomes of our values, Spines marked in letters of gold Book jackets of many colours For moments That may never come   The fault – as much with the reader As with the book, Both ignorant of true value As dust settles on unopened pages Of unseen books I wish we had the audacity of ...

  Gasping for breath, I stopped my trek I had come to the bugyal’s end. Emptiness, except for the mountain winds. Sometimes, this kind of silence is a godsend   ‘Babu, are you headed to the village below?’ Silence interrupted, I found a boy Draped in yak’s wool and antiquity There he stood, hesitant, coy   I nodded, ‘What do you want?’ ‘Can you deliver my salt to Ramji’s store? The only grocer in the village below, For I cannot linger here, not any more’   He sensed my doubt, the lack of trust Visible in all us citymen’s face, ‘It has begun to snow, the Pass will be blocked I must return before winter’s days.’   ‘And my yak is hurt,’ he sadly spoke ‘I don’t think he can make this journey back,’ I felt his sorrow in melancholy grey Trapped in our worlds of white and black   ‘Where is your salt? Have you been paid?’ I asked as descended, a shower of ice ‘Seven gunny bags in the hills above, I came this...

There, beyond the meadow’s edge Where the route may seem to end, Lies a trail from long ago, That the hills now merge and blend   It was a trail of merchants past Who brought borax for trade Through passes hid in the mountains high For rice and clothes instead   They came from hamlets far away From the Roof upon the world, Tibet’s prayer flags of time On the mountains, once unfurled   They came down on the hills this side With bags of mountain salt, They also brought romantic tales From Chin, its silk route vault   But time passed by, new nations grew They came all at a cost, The borders sealed, the routes emptied And all the trails were lost   All that lives on, even today Are fragments of these trails, And dying names that we forgot, Beyond the hills and vales   Nubra, Gartang, Johar, Milam Names we hardly know Hundreds of outposts, passes, trails Through which the trades would flow ...