Clouds in the valley...

Is this a land I have been before? I ask surprisingly -  Ignorant that more than the world, has changed the eyes that see It was the end of December, perhaps one of the most pleasant times to travel in the sub-continent. And I was standing on the ochre sands at one end of the Golden Beach in one of the busiest, most touristy beachside towns of eastern India - Puri. It couldn’t get any more festive than this - the skies were drowning in pale crimson, as a magnificent sun was dipping in the Bay of Bengal, as if in obeisance to Lord Jagannath himself. All around, throngs of tourists and travellers, from every part of the nation, had descended on to the sands to make the most of yet another speckless sunny day, their collective zeal as if supercharging the golden sands, and riveting all senses of any passerby. You could smell the crackling oil that was frying hot crispy pakoda and samosa, while elaichi tea was being sold in the gallons all around. Colourful beads and bangles, shells, n...

Chapter 3 - Deluge The rains had begun again - dark, sombre clouds, tinged in blue, came forth, flowing against a translucent sky that had given up on the sun. The mood back on earth couldn’t be more different. Rain-worshippers as ourselves had escaped from the confines of the city for precisely this purpose - to dance in the deluge, to splash  in the showers, and to wade in the waterfalls. Wet earth - tick, chilling waterfalls - tick, the RGB scale on the hills escalated to full green - tick. Just another bout of bounteous rains required to finish the album of the day. Tick. And then, there was glee. Why you ask? As the Buddha had said, ‘The trouble is, you think you have time…’ When you know you don’t, life speeds up. For you know then that with autumn, the emerald hills will dry, the ephemeral waterfalls will cease, and there will be more emptiness in the hearts than in the hills. Then you know that you will have to wait impatiently for another year before the hills bloom again....

The skies swirl in blue and pink A solar storm? No, it’s something more –  A different world, a different time I know I am lost in another lore There are stars hidden in the underground I don’t see, I can feel them all And around them each, a pulsing force Inside my spine, they rise and fall And the skies and the ground, they seem to merge A force that wills us, to die to be one The world an atom, a bubble of dream That needs not sky, nor moon or sun The stars fall apart, I can hear the cries When a pair of eyes opens in the sky The Blue G od wakes - if his dreams don’t last Then all must fall that once was a lie ‘Go back to sleep,’ I softly croon ‘It’s not yet time for you to wake’ And I somehow will th e God to slee p For I alone do know, what is  at stake And as He sleeps, I seem to wake The green skies turn to the blue I know, The noisy world comes back to life, And I seem to feel the times that flow ‘What happened to you?’ my cat, she asks Did I utter anything i...

Chapter 2 - Downpour Ethereal clouds had descended on these bleeding green hills – and wherever you looked, was a moving film of heavenly delusion, floating by in a wet, watery world of magic. Precipitation seemed to have taken a new form, combining heavy grey, nimbus clouds with swirls of fog and mist, surrounding us mortals in arcane, other-worldliness, warning us perhaps, that we had intruded into the realm of the rain-fairies. Yet, blocks of hand-cut stones, mossed up with incessant rains, formed man-made bulwark walls, reminding us that this was once a bastion of the mortals indeed. Not far away, a slow-moving cable car brought us back to the modern world, albeit for seconds, as the cabin ascended and disappeared in the thick swirling wisps of a monsoonal Bermudan triangle. This was Raigad, once the capital of the Marathas - perhaps the last empire of power in the subcontinent. Centuries back, they had hacked at the foundations of the Mughal empire, conquering their way even u...

Chapter 1 - Drizzle    The autumn leaves remind of time, That folds with wrinkles and some crease, But with these years come riches too - For what is life but memories… I read the papers – they say, the monsoons are on time, promising a healthy Kharif harvest. Far away, in a land devoid of n’orwesters, my restless mind needs but one fallen, ochre leaf to bring to life a verdant tree. I smile. On a less hectic, languorous Friday, working from home, there is time to amble in the gardens of your mind. The best part about this garden is you can pick and choose whatever you desire – no one stops you, time and space show no boundaries. And there is no dearth of flowers. Or of weeds. There is breathing space to smell the roses. And there is sunshine, both inside and out, to be dazzled by the glow of the amaltas blooms. I wander in this garden, and find myself lost in the Sahyadris – amidst the wonders of the Western Ghats, the pilgrimage of the pregnant clouds, and t...

‘Where exactly are you?’ It was my Manager at work. At 1 pm, I had not yet landed for work. He was worried. No, not for myself, but for the turnover target for the month. And I couldn’t blame him. Nor could I blame myself. For not getting down at my bus-stop next to my Office on the Bypass. For continuing to sit on the red and yellow minibus as it traversed outside Mahanagar Kolkata to some nondescript mofussil area that I never knew existed. For walking in the refreshing green fields and meadows, for breathing the air that smelled not of vendor negotiations nor inspection deadlines, for playing marbles with the children, and then, finally for heading to the Maidan, the one place that I could go to, without constraints, any time of the day, any day of the year. It was, after all, my Pensive Point. ‘I have not been well,’ I replied sombrely, as I lay spread-eagled on the green grass of the Maidan, my brown leather bag, imbibed with office notes, making for a very good pillow. A p...

It has been months now, A pale ochre lamp has become my morning sun. The world has changed, they say It limps in peace, and there’s nowhere to run.   Fortunately, my winter shawl remains the same It offers some solace in darkened green, Everything else is bathed in grey, Or in the darkness, better still, cannot be seen.   The Buddha on my desk says, in all your solitude, You have immersed in deeper melancholy And I say, isn’t it only natural, intrinsic? To slowly sink in deep - a life of gravity.   Solitude is a boon at times, it gives you space To see yourself in its purest form, Raw, imperfect, and a sadness deep That can raise within, a thousand storm   But I assure Him, this melancholy has its lustre too It’s not all dark like a lump of pain – In all its tears, it celebrates And its emptiness fills you up again.   And once you know you are callused strong, The pretentious world impacts you none, You look ...