Clouds in the valley...

It is January - that season that ushers in a human-made need for change in the name of resolutions.  Change is a good thing; resolutions are then not a bad segue to bring them forth. I was watching people speak of their resolutions on television, one of which caught my attention and made me ruminate. A middle-aged woman said she resolved to be more happy in this new year. And I began to think, can you will yourself to be happier? I thought long over a ruddy sunset, and realized it is perhaps the easiest way to be happy - to resolve, pledge, want, will, desire to be happy, and remind yourself every day, that you need to be happy. Bizarre as it may sound, happiness is more of a habit, a process where you cultivate yourself - and thus a cause, rather than an effect. Many of us make the fallacy of tying happiness to outcomes, which are more often than not, few and far between, and mostly materialistic.. Then, there are that many BMWs one can buy and that many fancy tiramisus one can de...

No matter how bright these days, Sunsets are never the same; For the colours float in forlorn eyes – What’s then left, to seek in empty skies? Until one day, you go back again And realise, home cannot be found Not back, not anywhere, ever again For home was a yesterday lost in the rain   They have all moved on with their lives, Left - the din of a sepia world, The heartfelt warmth of sunset days Exists no more, not in ochre time or space   We are then, all in lost exile In islands carved out of our sojourn seas, The cost we paid to think we are free Moving on and ahead, so listlessly…   We are then, all in lost exile Hiraeth in every cup of life, One more look to the western skies, Are those new colours? A handful of us realise…   22 nd Jan’2022

    In meadows green, above the hills, I heard the cowherd play – His flute divine, it healed the world And took my pains away   ‘Where did you learn these godly notes? That from your flute unfurled?’ ‘ The magic lies inside,’ he said, ‘For this flute can change your world.’   ‘You play this flute and make your wish, And your wish will then come true The world, the wind, the waves and all Will bow, listen to you.’   The selfish trader inside me, Then tried to make a deal, I threw a heap of gold at him, That magic flute to steal   That simple cowherd overjoyed To touch ingots of gold, While I walked away with a magic flute For new days to unfold   I ran at once to the village square, I had to usher change, I played the flute and felt its vibes Though the notes were twisted, strange   And one by one, my hamlet changed Exactly as my crave, I was the ruler new, at once Almighty, noble, ...

The meadows whisper, We’re not the past that you have known, Not Bald or Bugyal, Yet, beautiful, just on our own. In blades of grass, Hillside songs and dreams are sown: And one day, looking back We too will make you pensive mourn… On many a day, I walk or bike onto a meadowy hill close to my place. Long swathes of soothing green of the meadows are spiked with a line of Bunya Pines, as a few sheep stroll around. Sometimes towards dusk, you can see the western sky blotting sunset scarlet while a few wild rabbits hop around the shrublands at the bottom of the hill. With these sharp memories, Himalayan dreams of the bugyals float from the past while hopeful wishes of conquest look back from the future. The thoughts are inevitable - yet today, under the shadow of the Bunya pines, I began to wonder that perhaps I am not acknowledging the beauty of the hill itself - emerald and jade-pretty, wrapped with history, and similar to the buttresses of the fig trees scattered here, supporting itself...

And what of storms that rage outside The clouds that gather not, Unseen, unheard, yet deep within A chaos that can’t be fought   Like white noise, the thunder gongs The silence of the mind And lightning whips up nimbus dark Outside, the sun is kind   For all these storms that wage within, We wait as with the rain For clouds to drench our worlds anew With drapes of hail and pain   This - the only way the clouds are freed, And with them, are you. Cold, bedraggled, icy world Somewhere – a sunshine blue   Bit by bit, the warmth returns, And then, the west winds chime That you have seen the stormy eye Though you never had a crime   Sometimes, knowing all, life decides To keep shelter away, That you may tell your future self The tales of a rainy day…   12 th December ‘2021

Many of us often end up receiving a fair share of sunrises and sunsets by the sea in the tumultuous span of their lives. Whether we utilize these simple yet grand spectacles, whether we remember these magical moments in time, whether we are grateful enough to look back and smile -  are all very important questions. In those swirling colors that find new expressions in an expansive sky reflected on an immersive sea, lie calming, meditative seconds that can prise open an awakening - a sartori -  in almost anyone. There’s something magical indeed - pastel soft tones draping the end of one chapter, and ushering in a new one - a sunrise yin in bright sunny days and a sunset yang in dark brooding nights. But with age, I have felt preferring sunsets over sunrises. Perhaps, as we grow old, we tend to take refuge in the soothing comfort of the dark when we can choose to be ourselves freely, finding the shimmers of daylight too incandescent or too demanding. A sunset then feels like the...

The brooding clouds are here, they fret La nina soaks us wet, Summer’s sun now drips in rain, El Verano’s lost again No more rasping burn of sand, For drunken is the land, The ruddy earth has turned to green, The rivers, blue unseen And yet, not so very long ago, The world was all aglow, Not aurora or a bright sunrise But cinder filled our skies Days and nights, were furnaced all, The wild left sans a call, No, let summer come in nimbus curled Who wants a burning world? Perspective - smiles the soggy days, As Summer walks the haze - Not of smoke, but dripping mist The rains, a better tryst It is a wet summer again - and whether we like it or not, it is perhaps a blessing in this driest part of the world. Yes, you wake up, and instead of bright mustard sun spread on bluish skies, grey slaty clouds drape summer in rains, but isn’t it far better than waking up and seeing the world continue to burn - as was the case 2 years back, when the gum trees made tinder dry by years of dessication d...