Clouds in the valley...

  Bushwalking around the Lake Was a myopic act – Winding diversions that went astray Gnarly roots of gigantic gums Broken steps overrun with scrub Moss-green streams upon the way,   You had to focus down on the path Every step forward, Demanded fullest attention And I realised, Isn’t it just like life? Every day’s inertia of duty, Mortgages, obligation   No matter how blue the skies How green the Lake, The oculus has to watch down And keep trudging, one more step The only way progress is made, Despite the way, all dusty brown   Sometimes, the woods open to vantage But those are rare, The real test is getting back on the walk Finishing the trail, closure And more than wallpapers, realising One has wizened on a weary track… 1 st February’ 2026 Inspired by thoughts that wafted as I bushwalked on the Lake Parramatta walk  

    I look up at the skies at dusk Not vermillion blush But grey - it is a pale shade of blue-grey That is beautiful For the colours come from The Western hills From many years back   I sigh - The times: they were always capricious But the people - even they have moved on My friends are just photos in old albums Others have gone nearer And I am now floating alone Like a cloud atop a faraway hill That always seems beyond reach   The city I knew has changed as well A grander jewel With deeper shadows As for my wonder Ghats – how long Before bucolic charm Turns to success, tourism, Perhaps, there is nothing to go back to Except for monsoon melancholy and memories   It is too quiet here, and I stare up At the sheets of everlasting clouds As if the monsoons have arrived Out of season, beyond continents But I light up – The earth and its kindred souls May change, such are the rules Yet, the skies – who ...

F or two months, I halted – Ankle broken, ligament tore, I stared out at my garden The glass window as if framing A painting alive – My garden growing From an impressionist komorebi Balancing light and dark To an unkempt surreal Dali’s dream I waited, and waited   Today, I let the artist in me Come out with freedom at last First I tried to trim, But it was fighting a savage beast That had grown beyond control Like Wain’s cats in shades of green; I had worked for months To grow these plants, pots everywhere But these couldn’t sustain: I had an epiphany in the dewy grass of dawn   There is a stage to grow, Then there is a stage to contain Like Shiva’s dance. Sometimes. Chaos needs to be collapsed in a bottle Tendrils need to be tethered. As if the third eye opened I cut through the undergrowth Uprooting weeds, hacking months Bleeding inside, the growth I spurred Was culled, as I become the monster in turn   R...

  These days, Every evening feels Like a filled-up page, I don’t care to look at the words The notes or the scribbles Only that, the pages are filled.   There is little space left To doodle a smiley here Squiggle, or make an ink devil there There is some space between the lines And some along the margins Ah - Pure filtered space of gold   Alas, it takes that much ink To want to write a single word Nor is there time   - It is now alone I understand the joys of Fermat: Proof that nothing needs be proved   All the answers, the poems The proofs, and promises Are all within us Sometimes, the margins of life Are too narrow to contain All that we cannot say   Perhaps now, in the gold dust of time We will realise There is not much need to say The theorems will be proved Sometimes, we need to shut these notebooks And be proud of the old quiet library…   30 th Jan 2026   Pierre de Fe...

An old friend from long ago Sent a sudden photo – Rows of temporary stalls Decking dusty lanes Bound with books, Ah - Winter’s bookfair Where you can smell the fresh print In every pixel   But emptiness descends As I realise This distance today – This was where growing up began This was where unaffordable glossy books Could be touched and felt; Rupa, Oxford, Ananda Names that became faithful companions Ready to talk to you Even today…   I feel guilty That old friends Are still turning up At the cross-roads of time While I, snobbish, arrogant Chose to not return   ‘Why do you despair?’ the books ask ‘Is there still love For cream page and black print?’ I nod ‘Is there still the same anticipation Of holding an unseen volume? Of course, ‘’Then where have you changed? It is just that You are taking your time Not that you are late!’   But I had not attended For ages Unbiased by human emotion...

  Alas - The white blossom I had considered The sacred Brahma Kamal Turned out to be something else – Not a Himalayan wonder But a Mesoamerican plant   Now it makes sense – The rubbery leaves like cactus The resilience to grow Whereas the treasure I seek – Does it grow out of grace Wherever glacial purity Inspires a wizened land?   Its blossom though Is a wonder too – pure white Peeping behind emerald leaves And just as rare – A visitor of a single night Miss-me-and-I-have-gone Far beyond human eyes   Perhaps, it is this rarity That turns Queen to God Asking its subjects To be worthy of something more; But no, they are not the same And I dismayed Have lost a piece of Himalayan dream   Where from the high altitudes The white lotus Comes to me, carrying Memories of the mountains Where Brahma-loka meets Kailash In blinding white Faraway from this earth of red   But as I gaze, it whispers with the breeze It’s a blessing, don’t you see? For you need to pick your...

  Not Alibaug, you had asked Let’s head farther north So we headed to the solitude That was Kihim – Very different, a receding sea But a sheen of salty loneliness Coating the eye of the beach And hardly a soul   Who wanted the caress of sea On barefoot walks When there were thrashing waves And golden sands of Alibaug? Kihim was the quitter sibling Reticent, downplayed The one who never regaled Relatives wanting to be impressed   But we were old, weren’t we? You had ensured our Autumns Came early in Spring And so, we had no time for Horse drawn carriages, Or judging kinsmen We were free to choose aloneness Quietude, silence   Unperturbed even by The thrash of seas on sand Just golden sunset silence Watching the oranges Melt into the shimmering Wetness of the teary beach Little realising, - This was the farthest north we’d ever go     We have transcended the seasons now Would you sti...