Clouds in the valley...

Like a bottle of wine, days mature Bit by bit, in coloured glass, We claim liberation in astringency Though the taste is never sweet; Staying afloat, savouring the ecstasy We look back, in shiny tumblers What remains, are slowed down memories And even slower a pensive heart-beat   But at the end, we are all the same A bottle of emptiness, tinted from outside Inside, every moment, a bit less Just lingering – a fragrance of vintage old From some place far away Deep within, just a bottle of emptiness…

Above the hills of a tea estate, I was walking all alone, When I chanced upon a watchtower Standing on its own   Three flights of wooden stairs later, I found a cell upon the tower, A vantage for the olive hills Sprayed with cosmos flower   And right in front, in porcelain Cast a mountain dream, Somewhere far, the trickling sound Of a distant lively stream   What more to ask, the mountains had Blessed me a temple room To sit and think for endless hours, And melt away my gloom   And so I’d walk at every dawn To see the sunrise from my shrine, And sunsets too, intoxicated Without a drop of wine   There was something in that magical place As if consecrated by the earth, A chrysalis – that changed in me My frowns with peaceful mirth   The grandness of the cosmos stared The stars shone in the day, I realised – some see the dais, the curtains too Others: lost inside the play   (And you can...

  It was the last day of our tour - There was dejection in the air, From Darjeeling, all through the route To the northern skies, I’d stare   To see one last time, the humbling lord Kanchenjunga white, Blinding mountains, emerald tea How majestic that sight!   (What is it with us human eyes? As if there’s Shiva, his abode: Or perhaps, they are the closest here on earth That we can call a God)   One by one, the gardens passed Down the hills our way, Now, only the mountain tops were seen, Playing hide and seek that day   Then, at Mirik’s lake, we made a stop, But nothing more to see Wait - between the pines, a silver tip Smiled benevolently   A passer-by then looked at me Staring at the ice, ‘Go up to the Bokar monastery – The hike is worth the prize.’   Indeed, up at Bokar Ngedon Chokor Ling Kanchenjunga rose again, The mountains white, calming down The pilgrim of his pain   They...

  If I could meet you today, What would you say? Would you be proud? Would you be pleased? Or would you say nothing – in sheer dismay   Would you still say, this fight Was worth every soul that cried, Eight decades since, our growth has earned Your sacrifice some pride?   Would you still march, if you could From the edge of faraway lands? Would you still charge to Delhi’s gates To deliver us from ignoble hands?   From behind the curtain sheer, The Gumnaami voice may speak, We need to fulfill our own part Before we answers seek   Matters not what had happened then, That time has long since gone, What matters is where we are now – Hind – azad, reborn   For, in every era, nations will rise Kingdoms will also fall A new Netaji needs to rise When the nation gives a call   If we can all wake, understand This time has need   for cure, He’ll come back again in each of us, In hearts all brav...

  By the river Sunakhari, I walk in early morn, Village Tabakoshi is yet to rise, I am on my own - the mountains, mist and me And that hillside solitude – perhaps the biggest prize   A lonely tea stall, hangs by a cliff An old lady smiles, I feel like a cup of tea (Where else in this wide world, will you get a cuppa, Amber gold for pittance, almost nearly free)   Sushma-ji is on her own – such is life here, she says Spouse in the foothills, three sons, all away One in the army, another a sommelier in the city And the third a monk, who has been able to continue to pray     She is happy on her own, there’s enough they return And pumpkin and rhodos, to pass away her time, ‘A monastery will come up across the stream Then all day perhaps, the bells will chime’   This is how perhaps it should have been, At least, a part remains alive in these hills of mine ‘But don’t you feel lonely?’ Did I need to ask? The sun had ...

  The dingy roads of Darjeeling, Cluttered more and more, Too many people even when The raindrops lash and pour   And every time I here return The feeling’s same again Dingy, dusty, dirty town (Or sludgy in the rain)   Too many hotels straining for A glimpse of snow and ice, Too many people trampling as, My Darjeeling – she cries   Batasia is choked with cars, Is Keventers the same? Swarms the mall, monastery But who it is I blame?   For, am I not a part as well, Of the tourists in the town? Who turns the roads of Darjeeling Dingy, dirty, brown   Yet Darjeeling remains at peace Her heart is still so green For centuries, she has learnt to give Hence, rich she is a ‘Queen’   The railway continues to chug, The monks at Ghoom, they pray The trader, tourist come from far Some fall in love and stay   And those who don’t, how can they not Go back and sing a song, More vagrants come to find a home More pilgrims walk along   No longer Darjeeling’s a t...

  New Ghoom, Seemed as much lost, As the bustling Darjeeling city, (And - as were you and me)   Darjeeling, crowded, complex, Still the queen, But lost in time, its maze And in a smoggy winter’s haze   The monastery, Jewel in the Buddha’s eye, But the tourists’ chatter never cease Where the monks could chant in peace   One monk in purple Sells souvenirs, He sees disappointment in my eyes ‘It helps us all,’ he tries   ‘A small price For the sangha to flourish,' Better the tourism camera roll, Than this die for once and all.   I buy a cheap trinket, One more rupee to the cause I wonder what you would say, But you have already moved away   Deep inside The gilded shrine, Locked with the Buddha’s peaceful eyes, Will he ask us too, to break all ties?   I should have left, What an epilogue to the tale, But I see a monk in ardent prayer, Though the silken décor’s all threadbare ...