Clouds in the valley...

    When I look back, I wonder now Who was it, the hero one? Wizards, elves, the dwarves below Or was it one of the hobbits in turn?   In youth, you would say, Frodo, who else? Gandalf, Strider, Legolas as well, But as you grow old, you do realise This world is far from a green Rivendell   As silvers set, you wait for the dusk When you find your peace in the stars above You know you have bled, been burnt, and bruised To have scribed your tales of pain and love   And then you will know it was always Tom, The Bombadil Tom, was the hero lone The recluse Soul of the Forests old, Who chose his fate in being unknown Desireless was he, to have found his peace, That the Ring itself could have no hold, In his simple life with nothing around He had found his gems and gifts of gold   But can we too find the Tom in us? Can we stay far from the Rings of greed? Can we forsake the treasures of Smaug, And live in our ...

I walk in a sea Of wildflower blaze Outbursts of springtime gold: Smiling on carpets of meadowy green, As if, Fireflies on the fold   I cannot walk, Without crushing them (Do they see in me a kaiju beast?) An anomaly In an endless pointillist painting – Of flowers in a flaxen feast   It reminds me then Of a mountaineer though Frank Smythe’s olden tales His walks following Himalayan rains In hills And the floral vales   The Valley of Flowers, he enthralled Joshimath, Ghangharia, Heaven’s steps As monsoon clouds Billowed and bloomed In dreamy, vagrant, pensive shapes   If I feel this much glee, In a lunch-break walk That barely lasts an hour, How must have Smythe Felt on his treks In endless meadows, vales afar?   Is insanity then The solace lone, How else do you see the world? A lonely walker In the hills And petals of yellow, gold unfurled   But how can I fathom The joy t...

Norah Head flashes on the horizon As if reminding, Even in absolute darkness Hope is not very far It is there: burning, flashing, Crying, so often But the sailor has to watch All along For a drop of light On the eternity of emptiness   For this, he has to know He no longer treads In the deep, dark sea But that he has come this close To the headlands of his home If he feels not This proximity, There is nothing to look for There is no lighthouse That can bring him home   But if he does, It is not the fear Of loss at sea But the overpowering love That pulls too close That it runs aground The freedom of his ship; The love that leaves not The tendrils to leave That you can return someday     Somewhere between This loss and love, The lighthouse blinks On the edge Of seas of emptiness; And the sailor comes home Just enough That the scars are healed Knowing well, new cuts wait In his choi...

  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...