Clouds in the valley...

  I still remember - It was on the way To the Vedanta Ashram, Swamiji’s school of dreams That I had seen For the last time Nanda Devi – That marbled godly glimpse   Nanda, Sunanda Didn’t whisper back That spirit of Kumaon Stern and hard, Yet, the artist-pilgrim Inside said, Come back Painter, Come back bard   I wonder when Can I reverse That descent that day To Champawat, To climb Bugyals, Rishiganga’s gorge Then the heavens at Nanda, Badrinath   To smell the blooms Of Smythe’s Valley, To smell the trail Of the leopard snow, To see the snow plumes Float again, As the peaks catch fire In the sunset glow   Gangotri’s melt Comes this far The glacial teal Has turned to black, But there is faith, Himalayan hope, That we both shall One day be back   Even if we sail To faraway lands, Even if we cross The Seven Seas The mother forgives The prodigal child, Nanda Dev...

  I walk softly, On the valleys of time, There, from above I see far beneath - Souls in solitude Walking alone In meadows and mountains Under the gaze of the frozen gods   I see us All on our own, Trying not to find new paths But to retrace the steps We left long ago For we were here before And somewhere deep within We already know   This is the only peace Worth fighting for, This, the only shelter Worth leaving your refuge for This solitude The only company worth longing This melancholy The only happiness worth crying for   Then, one day We reach a hill, a knoll, Or a summit And all around, we see The massifs of time Where we find ourselves In pilgrimages Across eternity   Somewhere We have found his temple, In a shallow valley stream Somewhere else, We have climbed summits And yet not found our dream The circle continues along lifetimes That pass in the blink of an eye ...

  And every time you close your eyes, The caps of ice you see, Above them all, a pair of wings That glide in liberty   Pinnacles laden, frozen snow Breath of a million years, In nirvana now, no cosmic bliss Not even earthly tears   These are the realms of the higher gods Neelkantha and his kins, This then where it always ends This, where it begins   As if, the peaks are doorkeepers To the silence that we seek, They are the dreams that we covet When our worlds turn dismal, bleak   If you have ever stepped therein Your journey’s long begun, You’ll see them every morning, night At every round and turn   Until one day, when you get to see Through the sacral inward eye, You will start to doubt the truth of life, The deceit that is to die   Then you’ll wonder, once again If the mountains are a dream, Or they are the truth, and the cityscapes Are not all what they seem   The glimpse...

  Do you still look back And wonder? What if… I hope not, for The fabric on which we painted Has changed, Just as much as the colours And the painters. There is no room For continuity, There is no space For comparison. The book that ended Needs no chapters That were never supposed To be written.   Do you still look back And despair? Why at all… I hope not, for The pain of youthfulness Was mutual So was the void In our need for attention That had no room For one drop of emptiness; It has taken us this long To understand These worlds are but Seas of loneliness Where even our ignorance Were bubbles of nectar lost   I sigh, but I do hope You look back even today And Smile – At drops of petrichor That was our first rain; I hope you laugh To remind yourself Of your sonorous peals That echoed through The hollows Of my emptiness; I hope you curl your tresses To hide your tears When Tagor...

                                                                                        It was upon a garden-tea, I’d spent a few days lone, Me, Kanchenjunga, and The Universe unknown   For hours in my cottage small, I’d stare at spotless skies, The massif draped in white of snow, Unbothered by our lies   And all around, the garden grew In camellia’s waves of green, Winter’s cherry snuck in pink, How colourful had it been!   Perfect was it, excepting for A draft that blew in free, From a slit within a window pane That closed not completely   An ever-present companion, It was all chilling-cold, In silver, hung an icicle Upon my days of gold   You could press the window all you could But the slit would still remain, The perfect views disturbed with...

                                                             The blushing petals are no more, Instead are purple leaves Violet, plum, sangria-hued marvels And this is not even Autumn   The young leaves know They have big shoes to fill Sakura bloomed a week back Stirring madness in the air   But the fronds have learned well, Battle-hardened, they survive The last gusts of winter, Unlike their predecessors   But we, ungrateful spectators Muse on those who go away A year’s worth of amethyst leaves – Yet we seek blossoms that do not stay   The same wind reminds us To return in winter’s emptiness To sing in vacant branches, What we fail to write today…   1 st September, 2024  

                                                                          In just a week’s time The cherry blossoms disintegrate As quickly as they bloomed And Spring has not even started   In the empty cul-de-sac There are no passers-by; No eyes there are to mourn The rite of the falling petals   So much beauty, And no one to smile, or even sigh; Was it worth it, I ask the blushing blooms   As if in response, A wild wind blows – Even more petals chip away In brooding melancholy   And I watch the bees That think not, and move on To flowers that still hang on As a single petal comes and clings to me…   24 th August 2024