Clouds in the valley...

  The inspiration for this anthology came on a sluggish, sultry, summer’s afternoon - I had stopped my work for a second and was looking outside my window. The heat of summer had ushered stark silence except for the rare noise of a car that revved by – not exactly the kind of Ruskin Bond inspiration you would expect. However, as if in response, a spotted dove flitted from nowhere and took refuge in the shadowy balcony outside. It made no sound, but its flight broke a dam of memories – and a rush of thoughts of these feathered ones came rushing through. After the initial overwhelmia, I tried to focus my thoughts and gather them around memories that have inspired me for decades. I recollected the soft melancholic coo of a summer’s dove – that sound tinged with sadness, that breaks the silence, the monotony, yet fills your soul with an unrequited love of loneliness. On the opposite end of this spectrum, I recalled the rather energetic, wake-up call of the coppersmith barbet, that se...

  I walk on a bridge of wood Atop a thin purring creek The sound, meditative Makes me close my eyes And I float effortlessly To a hundred bridges Over infinite days Tiny Bridge to a school, On a lonely peak Massive cantilever bridge En route to work They boast a wide range   And somewhere, an invisible bridge That stitches time Leading me to exactly there, that day Bridge of time, I sigh If only someday, We master space equally well Every bridge will stand As a portal that in space The entire world glows In a series of bridges That let us hop through the fabric Twinned by space and time   That day, when we realise All of the streams are a dream We will perhaps No longer have need for bridges We will traverse this dream A countless times Choosing to come and go at ease Relishing omnipresence And if a bridge appears, We will still stay humble Ignoring the singularity in the fabric of a dream

  My garden is in a mess The spring-time bounty has been harvested. Devoured, rather – The corellas ravished the tomatoes, Chillis by the lorikeets And the lemons by the cockatoos I thank god, that the parrots Don’t feed on basil Lavender or rosemary Sole survivors of the feast   ‘What’s wrong?’ my mum has called Mums being mums, She recognises the despair In my evening’s voice And I regale her with The woes of my Jardin ‘You should be a proud gardener’ She surprised me instead, ‘What more can you ask Of the labours of your toil?’   Was she insane, I asked To which she smiled, ‘Your garden grew in earnest Grew so well that winged friends Came down in large numbers Smacked their lips and bills And cleaned every morsel of delicacy Your garden was a success a la printemps Can you argue?’ I couldn’t but…     She continued in singsong joy ‘You didn’t get to eat them, Is that why you grumble? Wh...

I watch a wood-hen cross a dirt road And I marvel at the mirage Of Evolution. That, nowhere else on earth Can you spot this miracle.   The woodhen is not alone, Every island kingdom Carries its own banner of rarity Special - but only To the oculus that knows it all   Not far away, I imagine The Kagu, the Kiwi The Kea, the Kakapo They have all grown In similar wonders of isolation   The price of aloneness, though Not that you turn different But you are recognised no more For your feathers are daubed In the dust of distant lands   Your kindred souls Turn farther away, until All songs of sameness dissolve And you are left on your own A tiny ark, all alone   As if to imprint the stigma The wings are taken away Thou shalt fly no more Every adventure comes at a price Even the spirit of distant lands   The option that remains Is to forget who you were To stay imprisoned In these isles of...

  It was surprising To see a lone corella Wandering on the grasslands; Gregarious that they are, This one had decided to stray away Wondering of the mysteries of the world By its lonely self   I am sure I saw a flock Much farther away The bigger soul of a flock on one hand Dissolution of the self, on the other Survival in the wild Does not need brooding philosophers And yet, some go astray   But was it wrong, I asked To sit on the edge of two worlds – One, full of company, A price of cacophony The other dangling farther away Like a comet’s distant icy tail Complying with the rules of gravity   There, on that precipice, perhaps You are allowed – To open your mask To breathe in who you always were To wallow in the melancholy Of your eternal lonely self And embrace emptiness   It is only when That last wisp of your existence Is set to disappear, That you recollect the curtains Of your thespian ...

  I spoke to an old friend From many, many years ago - The wonders of rebuilding connections Via social network topologies AI - 1, Humanity - 0   It felt like yesterday Fresh like a summer’s rain, all over again I was joyous at first, Ah, reminiscences, filtered memories Those sepia drenched college days, Dismal examinations, And lost loves proving Age of Empires was a better investment Of our times   We talked as if nothing had changed Though everything had I had moved continents, He country, While both had moved Onto other chapters, maybe books Or even bookshelves, libraries…   For those moments few It felt good, As if we started Exactly where we had left Aeons back Such is the strength Of friendships past   Yet, there was an emptiness Not of the past, But that of the present – Yes, we started where we had left But that is also where We had stopped.   The conversations lingered ...

    I remember a bird – A dark, black bird From younger days Long time ago: Unassuming, Uncoloured, Unacclaimed it was Yet somehow, it had a glow   It was a drongo An urban soul, A fork-tailed one Simple, plain. With neither splendour Of a racquet-tail Nor plumes of paradise Or spangled stain   But unlike all birds It had a mirth A zest, a leap In seasons all A force, a zeal Fluttering on and on, Unbound soul Though size of small   You had to stare For a minutes few At the dances Of the drongo bird, And you too would wake You would arise; To stay depressed - That would be hard   How many times, I recollect now Had I not sought The drongo on a rainy day To break my walls Of melancholy From feathers dark Always at play   Sometimes, I wished I had found the font That fed the fervour Of those wings But it was a secret Not for us Parting wealthy knaves ...