Clouds in the valley...

                                                                                       Hygge pronounced "hoo-gah," : Danish/ a quality of cosiness and comfort that creates a feeling of contentment or well-being; contentment from simple pleasures, such as warmth, food, friends, etc.   Cosy Friday evenings, Ensconced in the couch, The lustrous warmth of candles Scented by citronella   Even better if it rains outside The dipping Celsius relieves Guilt in the chocolate cake Or the capsaicin in the grill   The liberty of doing nothi...

    In the darkness still of night I see a silhouette tense -  Scampering ’cross my backyard Jumping on the fence   Its long tail gives it away – A possum yes, it is, Marauding in my garden (With neither rent or lease)   I cannot see its eyes Despite the starlit dusk Perhaps, it peers into me While both of us, we ask   Who is intruding here ? Interloper of these greens? Why is it that existence Of both cannot be seen   We claim we own these lands What of the denizens here? What right they have to live or die – What do we even care   The possum jumps onto the trees There is nothing left to fight, It has to live in shadows now As creatures of the night   But something changes deep within A burden starts to cease, As if through this one commune, I have turned its accomplice   I feel no need to guard again My garden as it grows For the brigand needs to be guarded t...

  Lost cat, Out there somewhere, very small, I wonder if it will survive This large world at all   Lost cat, Missed, now that it’s not here, Honestly, I never cared Yet I say now a prayer   Lost cat, Reminded by clouds of billowing grey, Would I care if the sun was up, Instead of this rainy day?   Lost cat, In absence, gives purpose in grief, I somehow feel it won’t be back Acceptance now, not disbelief   Lost cat, I will keep seeking – the distant call. Back to myself perhaps, For I never had a cat all …  ___________________ (Inspired by Murakami)    19 th November’ 2024

   Mohanlal couldn’t believe his eyes, His inner eyes, that is For he knew he was present elsewhere In mortal realms, far away But here, he saw the magnificence Of the universe Swirling in colours of a constant haze Studded with a trillion stars   All the colours faded into grey Save one Blue turned the cosmos arms And Mohanlal cried His heart told him the truth he always knew Vishnu was here Years of sadhana and tapas And He was here   ‘Vishnu’ I know you are here,’ He cried ceaselessly The ultimate truth, nothing beyond But This But he heard a laughter His heart ached There was no love, but scorn Mockery of the Maker   ‘Why do I laugh?’ a voice rumbled For you are still in dream Even after you leave your physical world!’ ‘What dream, my Lord? Are you not the Truth, the final one?’ Silence pervaded the cosmos ‘No, there is not destination In a circle of this Consciousness.’   And th...

At the end of every wearied day, I see your painting grey, And often wonder what would be If you were here today   Would you have been a commoner Just like one of us? Paying loans, stuck on a job, Commuting in a bus   Could you escape this endless race – Of survival, its quest? Would you look back and whisper soft That zamindari was the best?   Would you have time, to pen Gora, Could you write Kabuliawala? Would Yeats find your Gitanjali, Or Ray, Charulata?   Could you even find the melancholy The fuel to your song? In today’s world of broken rules, Would your unrequited love be wrong?   Could you remain the brightest star In this neon world of lights? Or would your pen have dried out too In the tiring daily fights   I look at you, you do not speak But I think I know it all - Buds bloom too, on cloudy days Bright too are leaves of Fall   In every world that you would grace, Awoke ...

Spring arrives with a bag of hues, Sprayed like confetti, As if winter’s end awoke Him well, The Artist now set free   But of all the colours that I see From the vantage of my room, Is a shade of purple, lilac soft Fused with a tinge of gloom   For the jacarandas have blossomed all They have begun to sing Can you hear the lavender-filled notes, The symphony of Spring?   This city has a long-lost tryst A romance of yesteryear, With a tree that came from faraway Each equinox to cheer   Come October then, avenues Those boulevards of old Turn bright and youthful one more time, When jacarandas they behold   And winter’s empty streets of cold Turn amethyst in peace Archways shade the city’s lanes, With wonders that don’t cease   For once, the forests flanking us Give us a lonely smile, Something done right, as jacarandas Erupt mile after mile   (I ponder sadly when I think I have seen ...

    The village artist had gone insane, Everyone said Bhola, the master sculptor Had lost it Ever since he had cast a Vishnu in bronze Intricate, handsome Reclining on the serpent of time, In His celestial dreams   Eyes closed, in yoganidra Vishnu was creating another universe It was magnificent All agreed, The best that Bhola had ever made But like all masterpieces, It had changed the creator Bhola was in delirium   So realistic and perfect Vishnu’s form That now the sculptor Wanted his deity to come to life ‘It’s just an idol,’ ‘It’s made of metal,’ ‘Get back to making pots, idiot’ But Bhola was determined   He had to bring Vishnu alive And he roamed like a madman. The village priest, The district pujari Had all given up But not the artist – He asked every traveller, Passerby, caravan   Until one day, A wandering yogi Came over, Bhola, already in mourning, Stricken with hunger, thirst and melancholy Found a new ray of hope ‘But it will extract a price.’ t...