Clouds in the valley...

  Of all the blokes I would meet in Europe, I must admit that the one with most character (euphemism intended) had to be Daddu. With a few strands of grey hairs that did give him a dash of handsomeness, Daddu earned his moniker not just for being one of the most senior guys in our group, but also for the sense of avuncular eruditeness with which he tried to wrap the world in front of you. Born consultant material you would say, except that Daddu also had a Jekyllian child in him, whose curiosity and demeanour would more often than not, get the better of the consultant. Sample this. We are totally lost in the labyrinthine streets of Prague. In pre-Google days, we had to travel old school style with cumbersome paper maps that would fail to list all hostels. Ours was romantically named Alhambra (after the Moorish jewel in Spain as we would find out later) but it was not on the maps. There were very few people in the afternoon, nor was it easy to ask of the locals who could not u...

I remember, winter’s noon when I was young In that corner balcony, Basking in the mellowed warmth Reading leisurely   All the homework neatly done It was time to read some more, That slivered time that all was mine No studies, nor no chore   It was the first time I had found The joys of travelling Though bound at home, I’d always feel I had got a pair of wing   For I would pour on magazines Outlook travellers old To sail to the far-off Himalaya The city felt not cold   Every week was a journey new Say, the Kalka-Shimla Mail Or a hamlet new upon the hills Kasauli, Pangot, Chail   From Abbott’s snow-clad cricket field To the lakes of Nainital To the tulip fields of Kashmir’s heart And a houseboat on the Dal   And every week the cold deserts Of the north turned mystic more, Ladakh, Hemis, Lahaul, Spiti The silk route and its lore   Closer home, I found Dooars In the foothills of th...

  Jayanti had almost dried Walking on the shingles, upon her river bed I drink the warmth of the mellow sun Watching you, alone, but far ahead I look at the dead trees – what stark beauty I plod into the cold shock of stream Despite the emptiness, there was that missing charm Buxa, a long-lost missing dream   I perch on a boulder, My feet still dipped in the running waters cold Numbed, the pain feels strangely good Retribution? Or the redemptive joys of turning old? When you came back, I do not know ‘I wish we could have come here soon’ I assure at least we had made it there, though very late Dooars in a golden December’s afternoon   ‘Maybe after monsoon was the time,’   you persist on ‘Lush jungles, the river flowing as her best’ And yet we trekked that day, didn’t we? Butterflies, tiger trail Broken Buxa fort upon the hillside crest You join me in the frozen river’s chill Was it evening’s time running slow? Jayanti st...

Winter would bring with her Strange allies at night And December would fog In willothe wisp white The nightly shroud would mean  No more need for guise I could walk on my own  Keeping back the lies In that thick gasping fog The halogens would still be strong So many suns above As if righting all the wrong And beneath one of them A fire oft would burn A lonely soldier retired Turning coal upon his urn And I would wonder then What days and nights he's seen That he would find solace In Lucknow far, serene Once guardian perhaps of borders Vanguards of a war, If you could chat in all the mist  He could even show a scar Some talked of terror times Assam, enemy at the gates Others paramilitary guns Elections in the states Yet here they were, all of them Trading guns for paper-pen Assuring safety to us souls In this scholars' den That despite the winters' caprice fog There's vigil in fighter eyes That wayward souls like me could stray And yet come back home more wise Yet, on th...