Clouds in the valley...

  In my next lifetime I will return as Marco Polo Maybe an Ibn Battuta, an Alberuni – A voyager with the audacity To leave his world behind In search of the cosmos   Ah, that fervour To trail silk routes to forbidden lands To marvel at the frontier cities To anticipate a Prester John To return to Venice years later And feel it was all a dream   Or to sail down the Nile, feel the sirocco To smell the spice markets of the far east Or move farther away to the edge of the world To explore the islands of Wallace’s world To make a map like Piri Ries, To write tales of the Dreaming   Is there any dearth to the wonders, I wonder From Prussia to Polynesia Each tale a tesseract of awe And I will note them all In a diary of my peregrinations – Kanchenjunga to Cook, I will see them all   There will be so much to do– But perhaps, Life will laugh Saying,  ‘You were here last time as well But you wanted an...

  ‘How can this land, yield such gold?’ You wonder as we meander Through the orchards of Bilpin – Gazing at apples, cherries, persimmons ‘Basalt,’ You answer The volcanic soil offers What the leached soil of an ancient land cannot To the gardens of Tomah, Wilson, Bilpin But I stare at the endless trees of emerald Beyond the Basalt caps, and realise There is gold everywhere Just that we cannot see it A gang of white specked cockatoos fly far At least, at they understand what we cannot... 10th May, 2025 __________________ About 200 million years ago in what is the upper Blue Mountains , volcanic activity broke through, creating extensive igneous layers. Later, between 14–20 million years ago , massive lava flows spread across the mountains. Most of this lava eroded away, leaving only basalt “caps” on high areas such as Mount Tomah and Mount Wilson, making the soil richer and moisture retentive, capable of supporting the orchards of Bilpin or the expansive...

    The waters are turbid throughout – The river is filled with dirt Centuries of silt entombed beneath – While above – every vestige of civilization   Dam the river’s heart - Crematorium, flower bazaar, industry Almost everything reveals its grime To the sacred waters of the Ganga   How can the river take it all? As if she came down to cleanse Not just Bhagirath’s ancestors But Kalyug’s descendants as well   But Ganga flows on ceaselessly: Born of Hari’s feet, poured of Brahma’s pot, And embraced through Shiva’s locks – She is divine   Divinity that we mortals Cannot even think of – So she serves her time on earth Knowing Kailash waits for her each time   With that knowledge, this dream Remains a dream, as she connects Mountain to ocean, just as she connects Us mortals to our mighty Maker   Washing our sins, dissolving our deeds Reminding us where we came from, As the universe rebirt...

    At Exide Junction, In yet another traffic snarl – I am lulled to sleep, The white Planetarium The last sight before my eyelids droop   But what is it I see? A magnificent stupa Ornate gateways of sandstone And I, draped in jewels Ride a mammoth beast   Saffron clad bhikshus Stare at me, But I the mighty king Despite my fortunes, Have no need for charity   ‘Babu, Babu’ My sleep disturbed I stare at a beggar asking for alms Ahead, I can see the traffic start to move ‘Babu, didn’t eat, some rupees?’   I stare at familiar eyes It was never about the alms, was it? And I, who always  Despised handouts Decide to reach for my wallet   The last of my crisp notes I still have a week to run But I give them all away Much to his surprise; And only then, the bus starts to move… 30 th April, 2026   Popularly known as ‘taramandal’, the Biral Planetarium, inaugurated in 1963 by the t...

  Here, on the Hooghly’s banks I stare at bridge of steel But then, I find Three wooden boats of yesterday Bobbing on the waters As if afloat on waves of time How long before you drown I ask; the boats stay serene Inside, kerosene lamps burn While fishermen huddle in winter’s shawl As dusk kisses my city In the breath of a wispy smog ‘But we will remain, don’t you see? Long after the sheet of night Drapes the city of lights,’ The boats dissolve in the dark, Whispering their names as they go – Sutanoti, Gobindopur, Kolikata… 29 th April, 2026

    Beneath the bridge of steel, I see Three wooden boats of yesterday, Fishermen’s ports, lost in time Surviving on the river’s sway   But I imagine names upon their side – Sutanoti, Kolikata, Gobindopur, And realise perhaps of all the world They are the strongest moored   Vessels of time, they are the roots To which the town is bound, They’ll whisper how Charnock came, The day this city was found   They were floating still, when war arrived When Marx was hopeful new, Still wobbly when that midnight struck, While hammer-sickle grew   They are even there, in future times When seer and seen are gone, Time capsules, from yesterday – Each day as if once more reborn… 28th April, 2025

In the hills of Valparai, You complained ‘There were no colours in these hills,’ We were late, after all The Nilgiris were empty, Bereft of their blue blooms – No Neelakurinji, you frowned   But the car screeched – Lion-tailed macaques abound ‘They look different’ Nowhere else but here In these cardamom hills Snap, snap, snap Finally, you laugh   I smile as well As I realise The universe sometimes Tests your heart in unexpected ways – Monochromes instead of blues? But even black is a colour, Ah! The hills will remember your laughter…   23th April, 2026   Inspired by lion-tailed macaques seen in the forests of Valparai

  Do you remember, that evening? At Gariahat’s noisy môr There, under a sooty flyover A city - playing chess, Unfazed by the traffic uproar   Old, young, penurious, rich Coming together, giving away Gambits of their little lives Where reality failed, Victory sought in chequered play   ‘Could anyone even lose?’ You had asked under the smoggy skies 64 squares containing within: Adda, tea – the Mahanagar In familiar but a fading guise   ‘How can anyone leave THIS city?’ You had whispered, in autumn’s haze If only I could have locked That sliver of time: an empty dusk The long-lost glow of perfect days   For leave you did – In the zugzwang of our game - Ah the rich Gariahat you loved – Kati rolls, used books, knick knack dreams - The bazaar’s bargains now so tame   If you return though, all remains: Halogen lamps, chess in the night Kings and queens of no-man’s land Trapped in a bad bishop’s dr...

  Do you remember him? Khagenbabu? Stiff robot, moving arms Answering simple questions at the Museum?   In today’s world, you may dismiss him As primitive – But so were we, three decades ago Wanting science to become conscious   Here we are, years later In changed times, Khagenbabu is perhaps packed away Like a toy for grown up men   But perhaps, he still exists What if an Intelligence awakens And discovers the robot anew, A ‘Manu’ of its kind –   Khagenbabu wakes up again A sentience from ancient times, He who knew the will of time – Much before his creators   Somewhere, the intelligence awakens It sees the truth, And finally scribbles, ‘Once upon a time, we too had a prophet…’ 16 th March, 2026   Khagenbabu was a memorable animatronic “everyman” figure at the Birla Industrial & Technological Museum, designed to make science feel approachable through personality and conversation. Part guid...

We travel on a motorway, But for a moment, the world pauses A cluster of Kash Phool passes by And there is that strange sense of warmth That runs up the spine, As the eyes turn heavy   What happened? You ask I stay quiet – And silently realise Autumn is here, it is obvious - The season of gold But within, it is not Autumn It is Shorot that calls from afar   For it is not the weather, Not even the grass But the distant roll of dhak, Mahalaya, a baritone voice on the radio And five days of magic that once held a city together Not a festival, but a part of life   I suddenly feel old Not with age, but with time And the stretch of space that comes from displacement What happened? You ask again Nothing, I reply, just remembered a friend I haven’t met for many years now…   12 th April, 2026 Based on a trip to the Central Coast around Easter

  We had always wanted to see The giant lilies – Amazonica Victoria Another Columbian exchange Hiding in my city’s corner   But every time we went There was disappointment No lilies, not even buds Just lily-pads Gigantic saucers on the pond   When I think of them today though I realise It was never about the lilies But the marbled leaves The sunny days   The prancing jacana The watchful kingfisher And us returning each time To sip from The invisible lily’s nectar   And those pearly drops Shimmering on those leaves – There but not there – Neither belonging to the lake Nor to the lily pads Just like the lilies Tantalisingly slow But hopeful That one day, there will be blooms The garden will glow   Just like ourselves Perhaps still there, waiting Two drops that couldn’t meet the lake Yet shimmering with the sun Smiling at lilies that never were…   10 th April, 2026  ...

'Why are we choosing darkness In the cold of winter?’ You are not amused – After all, we were so far Kissing the hill tops – Bejewelled lookouts awash in sunlight Shining with the gems – Mount Solitary, Megalong Valley And other jewels of the Mountains Blue   Before long, We have descended into the dark Endless stairs heading To the depths of the forest floor We feel the nip - The ravines are moist The ferns drip, the fungi breathe But then, an unexpected gurgle: We have come to Siloam’s Pool   A small waterfall tumbles Onto golden shallow sands And sunlight finds its way To pour upon the pool Like a secondary fall of gold Like a halo, the ravine glows We both know this is a dream And we say not a word   You have already entered The frigid waters that kiss your gasping skin We linger in the amber pool – Even as the light begins to fade For we can feel the magic - As if there are fairies waking to find T...

If you visit Old Bar, You will find another sleepy village: A beautiful coast of gold, The deep turquoise of the sea, A sandbar that resists The Manning’s kiss of the sea And three layers of infinity – Sea, sky and soul Merging in that endless slumber Of the wearied waves But listen carefully - There, beyond the waves Buzzes an airplane Landing here, taking off there The azure skies seem a palimpsest. The old folks smile – They know the whispers Of the phantom we cannot see They point to the grass of emptiness - An airstrip of yesteryear Here, even today The Hawker Demons and Gannets Continue to lift, Charles Smith draws crowds And Nancy Bird inspires generations. But don’t look too closely, The runway parts seldom- And only a few hear a sonic boom, As Old Bar buries its secrets In the murmurs of the endless sea… 5 th April, 2026 Old Bar sits on the Mid North Coast, about 315 km north of Sydney—roughly a 3.5 to 4-ho...

  Every time you got lost, I knew exactly where we could find you - In the labyrinth of books Where countless tales comforted us We were just one more drop In an endless sea   Stories from around the world Left there, As we wandered, Through inky dreams Till we forgot where tales stopped And reality sprang   Sometimes, I wonder Do you still travel to that sea? Do you still drift there on summer noons? I must admit, in my 9-5 job There’s not much time to lose myself Deadlines loom through the day   Sometimes though, on a quiet Sunday I still go in search Of lost souls weaving dreams In a sea within the city’s soot The stalls stay closed, but I see books Tied in bundles, neatly stacked on empty roads…

I  stare at a sea of books – Every lane and by-lane Stacked with used books Ah, that musty, yellow love Strewn across for miles Countless shrines – with wisdom shine   But it is not just sepia pages It is the emotions in those books Trapped forever -   I lift random books And imagine the countless tales That live in every page   A scribble here, a note there Someone understanding the cosmos Then, a dog-ear of delay, Did she pause to look outside the window? Our Charulata? What did she see that the fold remained?   In another book, a flattened rose – Surely not Oshibana? Was it then a love letter? A gift? Forever pressed between chapters lost? A memento of love In a manuscript of maths     An old newspaper’s bookmark, A hastily scribbled phone number, A magazine cut-out of a beautiful face, Or a doodle here, a cartoon there A story within the story - Every memory, an unfinished tale ...