Clouds in the valley...

Blue skies, the frozen South Ah! The glaciers we had kissed, And yet, those eyes that went unseen For Aoraki, we missed -  The reflection lakes, they came and went The sun, it smiled in jest, Knowing well that we would miss Mount Cook upon the crest. Those few minutes we could turn back Have all now turned to years, How long until the white peak’s seen, To blue a sky that clears They say, Aoraki sees and knows it all, Was it all then planned, I doubt To return again with a purer soul To the land of long, lost cloud… 5th June, 2021 It was a sparkling day, when stunned with the Fox Glacier - within arm’s reach - we headed back to Queenstown. New Zealand, Aotearoa, the land of the long lost cloud is a paradise, every turn a surprise, when temperate rainforest changes to stunning Tasman Coast to alpine lakes to gigantic sand dunes. In this land of plenty, the grandest spectacles have turned to Maori legends, the tallest of which is the celestial visitor, Aoraki, Mount Cook - the talles...

I sit quietly in the beautifully decorated shrine room of a monastery - its walls and floors are painted in crimson red and golden, the rows of cushions on the floor spotlessly Covid-cleaned, while the main altar makes me wonder whether the awe is because of the meditative spirituality it evokes or the artistic splendour. There are three Buddhas in increasing size, representing the past, present and future; they are flanked by other solemn guardians, fearsome warriors, and seven storied wooden pagodas whose artistic intricacies would take your breath away. It is a quiet sunny afternoon, and outside, the magnolias and camellias swish with the gentle winds of winter. I sit back quietly, the only worshipper in the room, and continue to look at the meditative Buddhas who seem to tell me, I have come to the right place.  Every once in a while, a Taiwanese nun comes around and checks if I am really a worshipper - the bodhisattva in me forgives her: she has not seen many Indians around an...

  Shimla, Shoja left behind We climbed up to the Pass, To find a jewel in the hills, Of meadows and green grass Layered hills in fading blues, Smoked a bit of cloud, Far away, there was some snow For the mountains’ always proud All around the hills were sprayed In yellow, purple, blue -  Periwinkles and the primulas -  And cobra lilies too Solitude had no human sound, Though the fairy winds did blow While grazing cows tinkled their bells, As a stream did gush below There was something calming in the air, Pine-scented and so lush, The age-old hills reminding us, Where was the need to rush? An orange sun set timelessly, A red dusk left behind, All it took - one evening To cleanse a wearied mind With night came darkness to the camp But there were wonders more,  The clouds of Akash Ganga rose, To thrill as n’er before A bonfire crackled, bringing back A bit of earthly glee Where cinders stopped and stars began All seemed a reverie But then a bit of noise when came A few ...

  Hikers wear many a badge of honour when they recollect their hardest trek. Be it the thrill of watching gorillas in the mountains of Rwanda, or trudging in an atmosphere of breathlessness in the dizzy heights of Annapurna, or finding the elusive birds of paradise in the cloud forests of Papua New Guinea - the ardour is more often than not, made up by the achievements. Not in our case. First of all, I will have to replace the badge of honour with a bag of honour. Literally. After all, the hardness came not from the trek but from the paraphernalia that came with it. It was indeed, some walk in the park. It all started at the calanques near Marseilles - steep limestone cliffs, carved out of riverine erosion millions of years back and flooded with the rising sea levels at the end of the last ice age, about 12000 years back. The calanques serrate a long coastline in the south of France along the Mediterranean and make for spectacular hikes and rock climbing. Their unique geography led...

Truth was, I didn’t want to come, Grandma was hanging by a few more breath, And all around was the smell of gloom, That feel of damp, and a bit of death Cocooned in all my college fun, This was not the place for me -  And looking at those two tired eyes, This was not how she was meant to be Grandma knew; she always knew, She called me with a gnarly palm, As I sat by her side, the past returned The edges dissolved, and all was calm The tears came how I never know Perhaps they have a memory too, But Grandma smiled, as she always did As if all was same, nothing new Grandma spoke with a raspy voice, A few more words for a rainy day: ‘This too is a part, my child You cannot always run away…’ Run I did, from the hardest times, Anything that I couldn’t bear, Some sadness here, or grief at times, And the fun-loving youth was never near And Grandma knew, though she never said, An escapist never wins the world, She had called for me, for that one last look - And to live that day, so gray and...

It was a late morning near the Rumtek monastery in Sikkim - blue autumnal skies, a staggeringly beautiful monastery gracing the overwhelming mountains and an immensely friendly people made every moment feel like paradise. (Add to it a brunch of pahadi chicken and strong ginger tea and you can wonder what 24 carat memories are made of). Feeling peace and joy, I wondered continuously how charming it must be to live in these mountains. There seemed peace in every view, a smile on every lip. You see, after years of being exiled in books and I-have-to-top-this-time-too exams, I had gone for a holiday in the hills, ignorant that a deep-seated yet forgotten love for the mountains was about to be rekindled.  I saw a bunch of school kids happily returning from school while walking on a hilly slope, each armed with a pine cone or a cedar branch as his choice of weaponry. I couldn’t help wish aloud how delightful it must be to go to school in the hills - what with these delightful views on th...

  I stand beside the bulging stream, As muddy waters flow, Though clouds have ruled the week for now, Inside, there is a glow A glow from vintage memories As the mind, it wanders free -  Warm and sweet, intense as well Served like a cup of tea Then, every raindrop, cold and hard Brings back a shard of time, From the Garo hills to the Western ghats, The winds begin to chime A little boy in a raincoat blue, Walks in hail to school, While a grown up soul then climbs in rain To splash in a cascade pool He ambles in the deodar hills, The Pelling rains are cold, Through clouds, the Kanchenjunga squints With vows of a sunset gold From backwaters to the coral isles, The echoes come again, Sajan, Shimla, Sindhudurg -  A common thread of rain   The worth of moments sunk in time Are best judged as a memory A drop of rain ushers a storm, This strong the past can be    My friends call me, it’s time to leave The rains, they say, are bleak -  Sieve the past , I ...