Clouds in the valley...

At Bhutan’s hillside edge, I stand Looking back at dusty plains, While summer’s sluggish water flows In a thirsty stream that waits for rains   Torsa starts herein these hills, One more of Tibet’s glacial grace, But she seems wizened, tired too Slow and steady, there is no race   Perhaps she knows, like her sisters here Jaldhaka, Kalijani on her sides, They will join the mighty Tsang po south, Why then the rush for faster strides?   Enjoy the hills, the prayer-wheels’ peace Cherish the peace, perhaps she says It’s not every day, you get to seep In the emerald greens, of Druk Yul days   I look around, I smell the pines Indeed - what shame there is in slowing down? A traveller’s empty pockets of peace Or the weight of a golden jewelled crown?   Come back to this spot, come back in time Torsa whispers in a sunset flow When you feel you’ve lost in the race of life Come back here to these waters slow….   ...

    At Pangong, You had turned philosophical The infinite gradients of blues, The thinness of the Karakoram’s air Or just the sheer magnitude Had triggered a change And your eyes, Had turned darker than The shadows of the Galaxy Spotted here at night   Don’t you see, you whisper – This is not a Lake any more But a Sea, an Ocean Yes, I nod, large indeed The largest of the mountain lakes But no - even this is not enough for you Not just the present, you counter But a trace of the ancient past A drop of turquoise Left behind in a capsule of time   Tethys, you explain Memories of Tethys that was always here Until engulfed by the hungry plates Only a mirage remains. You look at me The waters ripple in your placid eyes For me to eternal wonder Which one had shimmers more   Why? You yearn me to ask - Is it that, despite these dreams of pristine ice, Truth bleeds in turquoise tears And in the meltwate...

  Here, at the gardens of hillside bloom, Spring has burst into a thousand hues. And rhododendrons of every shade Shower the paths, whichever you choose   But I walk straight to the ruddiest ones Carmine, Crimson, Ferrari red I have swum in time, I am not here I am back in time somewhere else instead   In the Himadri hills, long time back The rhodos bloom in alpine green, We both hunt for the reddest ones But they are nowhere to be seen   The white brings peace, the pink some hope But where are the reds, we both complain But you being you, are full of hope No angst there is, nor there’s disdain   We scoured the day, we gouged the hills But the reds were elusive all the while, Until you stopped on the way, knowing well The chase that day was just futile   ‘Don’t you see, they won’t reveal Until you bleed your heart in red, Its all the same, the white rhodos Showing themselves once you have bled.’ ...

  Lost Cat (Tribute to Murakami)   My cat is lost, It often goes away Like myself In search of itself Unlike me, though I hope it gets its answers.   Perhaps it does, Why else would it return? But then, why does it Get lost yet again? Perhaps, the frame of reference changes Perhaps the answers   no longer make sense   Or perhaps, it has new questions. Best of all, Perhaps it never needs answers But just goes out To marvel at the world Or the wonders of the Milky Way   While I Fret That my cat is lost. Perhaps it is me – I worry, but it doesn’t If it has to return It will…   It will come back To these worldly ways It will force itself Like a square peg It will conquer Its existential woes   To find its pockets Of fuzzy warmth Now I wish I had a cat For I never had one Though I keep thinking What was it that got lost   13 th May

    Far above the Harsil hills, By the cliffs of Ganga’s blue A bridge of wood hangs even today Where traipses just a few   The granite cliffs were carved by hand, Upon hills of deodar Centuries back, by Pathans, they say Who came from Peshawar   The wooden bridge thereon to trade To Nelong and Tibet Where salt and milk and rice would flow And two cultures would have met   Divine this place, here Gartang prays Where Ganga stays and waits - Between Gangotri in summer’s warmth Mukhwa when winter sets   If you ever come to Gartang’s bridge You’ll see Jadh Ganga in teal But in the silence of these hills There’s much more you can feel   The timeless flow of traders past Their treads upon the bridge That hope of something more to find In routes beyond the ridge   Himalayan tales written past Only a handful that we hear – Heinrich’s flight to Tibet past Or Pahadi Wilson’s adventure   And so many more we never hear All on this wooden way, Gartang’s t...

  On empty days as these I listen to the songs of Amelie And win over the tricks of time For I teleport myself Back to the streets of Paris Where I find A lonely wayfarer Searching for the muses hid In the city of love Searching for the Artists Of life, on canvas old Traipsing by the Seine Seeking enlightenment In the city of life To often be disappointed Despite the cobbled streets Leading to Montmarte Notre Dame, Luxembourg Despite the books of Shakespeare And the fountains of Hausmann Disappointed Only to find a bigger truth In the chisels of Rodin And the brushstrokes of Orly - Himself Wandering, wondering Seeking, Seeing Losing, Loving All in the streets of Paris Until the city itself Became an emotion – Lost with life, lights and love Often disappearing In the darkness of night But coming back in a thousand sparks Wrapped in the twinkle Of a tower tall Somewhere, In the heart of Paris…   10 t...

  Were we the last that day to start From high on Yumthang vale? Snowstorm - the cars turned back For the skies were grey and pale   Coming down to Lachen’s warmth You stopped our car enroute, As I look back now, I only smile How little I understood   In a summer sleet, you had to stop Why, I didn’t know, Not for the hills, nor mountain blooms Not for the coming snow   In the freezing cold, I walked to you What is it you seek? ‘Prayer Flags’ was all you said While the skies turned grey and bleak   Down below, the hills were blue The meadows emerald green, But prayer flags standing in a line Were all that you had seen   Despite the cold and melting rains, Their silky flutter in white Were singing with the whistle of winds They shone with a different light   ‘Can you hear them sing, their carefree swish?’ Your eyes had a certain glow ‘They are on song no matter where These empty winds ma...

(Introduction to my latest book of poetry 'A Few Borrowed Words') Do you recollect an instance when you met a person, found a place, or felt a surge of emotions, and realised there should have been a word specifically for that? Well, if you pay slight attention, you might find many such scenarios on an average day! For example, how about the impossibly blue clear skies on a summer’s afternoon? Or that strong smell of crushed pine or basil that almost instantly calms you down? How about the staccato sound of rain on roof? Or something as simple as the taste of cold water when you are immensely exhausted or parched?  As for people, remember that friend or avuncular kinsman who is always available as a foundational source of support? Or that person who always lights you up, in all circumstances – and no, this is beyond love.  As an artist, I would even add the elation of being able to complete a piece of work to one’s satisfaction (the opposite is equally relevant). And yes...