Clouds in the valley...

  Do you recollect any particular moment, that was so captivating, that you feel that life has dramatically changed therein? Every moment thereafter in the spool of time exists but keeps going back to that one supernovan moment that has changed the flow and ebb of time.     I would love to create a name for it, and call these ‘big-bang’ moments – instances so enthralling that like a supernova, the fabric of space and time explodes, and gets to recreate, such that you keep going back psychedelically to that same moment again and again. For those spiritually inclined, who believe that life itself is a grand simulation of the senses, these moments then become core hotspots that drive the simulation itself. But, enough of these Vedic philosophies – let’s get back to the romanticism of these instances. All of us would have faced ‘big-bang moments’ somewhere on our journeys. Perhaps we may not have realised the ‘aha’ of these moments, but we have all had them, at least once...

  Do you recollect any particular moment, so captivating, that you keep going back to that memory, time and again, in both good times and bad? Good times, for the memory compounds your current mirth and cheer, and fills you with waves of warmth. In bad times, the same moment acts as an anchor to keep the ship steady in the deluge of despondency. Such moments are magic moments, wisdom filled bubbles of time, that show up as distinct flag-staffs on the highest crests in the hills and vales of memories.  All of us would have had their share of these magic moments, somewhere on our journeys. Perhaps we may not have realised the ‘aha’ of these moments, but we have all had them, at least once. The realisations that came therein or thereafter, their epiphanies, would have changed us, consciously or subconsciously. One such moment – as you may have guessed already – was the first time I saw the Kanchenjunga, and as its immediate precursor, the first time I saw the immensity that was t...

  Sundar Singh was astonished, He had thought us Ignorant city-dwellers To be the usual tourists Unaware of the beauty of birds.   He asked us if we knew any Denizens from wherever we came The long list of my response Astonished him, As was he impressed   How do you know so much? Didn’t you say you were an engineer? I smiled, Indeed But a curious one at that Mesmerised even by an ant   He took us on a different route Not for the usual Delhites Blasting music from jukeboxes. But alas, mid-day was never good For bird-spotting   Despite our route, We spotted just a few common ones Not the treasures of Binsar and beyond, But Sundar Singh was annoyed At his failure   He peered in the afternoon sun On treetops, in undergrowth But none came up Our birding guide was crestfallen His own backyard failing him   Until towards the end of our walk He screamed in delight There, a staggering L...

  So many colours of rhododendrons In pastel pink, and violet, red As if, rainbow trails from heaven above, Have all, in Shingba bled   Yet , you – who seeks colours Of the firetail’s fiery hues You leave all these petals alone – And instead, what is it you choose?   The grey, melancholic feathers Of a bush-warbler that shies, I sometimes wonder, what is your truth That hides between your lies   The blossoms, are easy, you say They shine even for eyes all blind But sometimes, don’t you wonder What is it you’ve left behind?   That warbler flits in that unseen, Beneath the most-stunning of bloom, Choosing then not out of choice, Feathers of grey and dimming gloom   And yet it flies away alone Ignoring colours that burst and pour - The pollen grains are sweet enough, The warbler needs not any more A sleet descends - we are all wet But you look out for the warbler again, No sun, no rainbow, those can...

  I often wonder how We cannot find sparrows anymore; Those feathers in brown, black and white Scurrying in groups, Bringing life to the sultriest of summers Through flights of freedom In the afternoon suns of Golden-sepia yesterdays   Perhaps, they too have flown away Like lost childhood days Unable to return From the event-horizon of time Perhaps they too have gone far Like long, lost friends Faded away with musty postcards And old telephone numbers   Sometimes though, Comes floating a little feather In the sunset colours of a greying day A feather in a cirrus cloud, Drifting away, Asking us to leave behind The weariness of our age, Of lost time and faded memories   Reminding us to not forget - Perhaps there is a small flock, Of tiny sparrows from yesterday Still persisting against all odds Just like a tiny bit of us Still spry, free, awaiting   Drifting away like a light feather In the heavie...

    As we walked past the pheasants, You stopped - Of all the winged wonders In Darjeeling’s zoo, Lady Amherst’s Mesmerised you the most   Not the Monal, Nor Khalij Nor the ruddy tragopans But the bejewelled Amherst. I couldn’t deny,  though The iridescence in their wings   ‘But they are visitors’ I did not understand Why that depressed you ‘Not from here, They are from far beyond These hills will never be home…’   It is only now Decades later, Perhaps I understand: That cage was far bigger; Even if they were released Those colours would be stranded   They would never find home Even in the serenity Of the Himalaya To start all over again, Smoothening all rough edges For pinpricks to persist   These hills will never be home - The denizens wonder Where is the ache, Unable to see The cageless cage Of the migrant birds…   15 th June’ 2025   The Lady Amhe...

At Thattekad bird sanctuary I arrived bleary eyed Not because it was 4 in the morning But for work ‘Consultant’s life’ I fumbled As the birding guide Looked at me, admonishingly, Being 10 minutes late   ‘I was up until 3 am’ My fellow walkers’ scorn Thawed a bit in pity, As I reminded myself Business cases and birds Seldom go hand-in-hand (Night-outs were best Left behind in university days)   Yet, there was something In that forest air, To march in the morning freshness Despite the fatigue Even when the sun’s rays Were just piercing The forest cover The dewdrops at dawn   But wait, a warble - Gireeshji, our birding guide Whispered me to come in front Me? I perplexed Leaving behind the other Professionals, armed With telescopic lens Like megaphones   And Gireeshji pointed out Our first bird – A flash of red, Scarlet Red. ‘Scarlet Minivet,’ he whispered ‘Very rare to see it First thing...

…and just like that, The sea whistles loud, A jet of salt into the skies A spray of saline cloud   Kia-ra-ma As the olden folk would say Where the sea makes a sound Every day, even today   At Kiama’s punctured heart The sea makes a valiant try To touch the sun it sees Upon a higher sky   An unrequited love - Yet, it goes on and on Swooshing higher, higher still Singing a forlorn song   Of despair, loss, melancholy Of a jet of salty light What all a heart can do for love How long a heart can fight   250 million years, they say But the blowhole carries on, A jet of salt into the skies Sea, sorrow and song…   13 th June, 2025   Kiama is a small, quaint, coastal town, 120 km south of Sydney. The name "Kiama" is derived from the Aboriginal word "kiarama", which means "Place where the sea makes a noise", in reference to the Kiama Blowhole, the town’s biggest attraction. 250 mn years old, the Ki...

    The frigid waters of the Falls East of Pelling Made me elated. But you remained morose – “To reach a pilgrimage When we had not bled enough We remained Undeserving pilgrims.”   The glacial melt That came from the heights of Kanchenjunga Was the God itself – For those who couldn’t ascend To the dizzy heights The meltwater in the falls Was the closest to redemption   It is only now That I realise The burden of that heavy truth – Almost a font of freshness Drenching you ahead of time When it was not yet season For the monsoon clouds To roll in summer’s rescue   Almost a font of love Healing all of you When the wounds Were not even formed, Undeserving pilgrims, as you said Reaching the sanctuary of salvation Yet feeling unworthy In a journey that was never made   Perhaps, after all these years We have earned our rights To touch and feel The meltwaters made in Heaven We have ...

  … Is this how time catches up with us? Perhaps, Not through silver strands Or trying bones, But through the invisible weight Of loneliness That adds a feather every passing day -   Of all the parched love We couldn’t get, Of forgiving friends Who long past moved away Of all those farewelled hearts That could have lit up The darkest of our empty nights   In that emptiness, In the sea of humanity The songs of everyday Get absorbed In the white noise of existence, The bare minima Of staying awake   And even before we know it Another silvery winter sets in, Longer, colder Than ever before, Yet to be shorter Than any we will get to see In the irony of time… 04th June, 2026