The weather

Affects me. I'll be frank. This big window in my drawing room, it doesn't hide away the weather. So when its cloudy, the clouds come into my room and its no good when the clouds are in your room. They just mess everything up. They are very meddlesome, and they don't take a hint. So if my face is twisted in a grimace they pretend not to notice. When I don't answer questions, they pretend they never asked. They help themselves to tea or coffee and then they eat the ginger nut biscuits in my kitchen. The carpet becomes soggy and the walls feel damp and everything is oozing with melancholy.

Squirrels and Pigeons

This afternoon I basked in the park at Russell Square and watched as squirrels and pigeons made merry in their own idiosyncratic ways. There is a low hum that surrounds the park, that of automobiles grunting at idlers like me while encircling the park, but usually its quiet enough to hear the fountain, the dogs and the lady on the phone. I was lying on the grass, slightly wet, when I noticed the grey squirrel. It moves in such a staccato manner. You couldn't say if the squirrel was in such a hurry, as the white rabbit who was running late. The squirrel would always stop and ponder for a few seconds, before absolutely dashing off in the next few seconds. Like this nervous, frenetic worrywart who would dash off with the intention of doing something, and then stop and wonder why he was doing it. Like this capricious shopper, who just can't decide which top she wants, and who seems to like another as soon as she picks one. Like an obsessive professor who can't seem to get his mind off a math problem or puzzle, stops in the middle of whatever he is doing to quickly scribble something into his shabby pocket notebook.

Then I spotted the rather lackadaisical pigeon with its languid motion of the neck cocking to and fro to counter balance the movement of the body. It would careful tread on the grass like an arthritic lady, carrying a bag full of groceries to her monochromic and indistinguishable house abutting the park. Like the laconic man with bushy moustache, who hands you a gasping pen with his fat fingers at the entrance of a grey building, for you to sign his register, before slowly reaching out to hand you the visitor's pass. Time, this time, is an onlooker standing still. The pigeon has a poise and stateliness that is especially reassuring when it stands next to the squirrel. They are about the same height, two strangers waiting for bus numbers 68 and 188 respectively, ready to carry on with their respective lives in their own peculiar ways.

My body and me

As you grow older, your body turns into a strident lady, ever grumbling and fault-finding. One of those ladies with long aquiline noses (like the beak of a bird) who's voices rebound in empty corridors and staircases. They like the china on the table, placed exactly like it ought to be, even if the food is as bland, vitaminated, spinached and carrotted.

My stomach spoke up today, growled and grunted. Of course my stomach has been speaking for days now, but I never quite understood what it said. The language is familiar but the dialect is so unfathomable and the words are like that of two Cockneys discussing football. Every now and then you hear words like Liverpool or Arsenal and goal but the rest of it makes you feel inane. My stomach speaks Cockney, so I choose to ignore it.

Its the stomach today, but I have a feeling some day my body will feel like a committee. Or a union, that will strike work on me and ask for a pay increase, perhaps blame me for the recession or inflation. My liver, my intestine, may be even my knees, they have this sinister look about them, like the sooty proletariat are wont to have. They trust nothing, not even my empty promises and supplicatory remarks. The way its going, I'll have to call it a sick unit, and seek a bailout.

How my body detaches itself from me as I grow older. It just becomes a different human being. A very difficult old lady (I repeat myself), so different from me. Sometimes when I scold it I feel sad and guilty. I might have hurt its feelings. At other times, I just lose it.

About a painting

Pierre Bonnard. I was just tired and I sat down next to the Japanese couple at Tate Modern. And you were in front of me. I was behind you. Pen, paper, Marie, window, and the profile of Maria looking contemplatively at something we will never know what. Standing on your balcony towering above a mushrooming town, nestling between bushy trees and patchy skies. You were sitting on that desk with your books to the left, sipping coffee, feeling too lazy to get up and open the windows. You didn't even start that letter you were going to write to Madame Leblanc about the incident on Wednesday morning in the wine shop. You didn't do anything today, I mean anything useful. Woke up in the morning, made love to Maria (even called her Julia while you were at it) and now she is trying to look like she is really hurt. What is she looking at - the neighbor's violet curtain? It would be nice to paint her nude, drying her self after her bath, standing before the neighbor's violet curtain. Hang on, that might look like Degas but you can always put a window and bring in the french scenery. That's your thing. Ok I digress. Then you had your breakfast of croissant, and now your coffee is getting cold while you are doodling into your notebook with a blunt pencil and scratching your silvery stubble with it. The dog is barking incessantly, but Maria can't hear him. I think she is looking at the neighbor's violet curtain. She looks beautiful in profile, or with her back to you - svelte with skin the color of cafe au lait. You have to go feed the dog now and I have to go home as the gallery has become so empty.

Thats a beginning

But there are a whole of lot of places I have to write about, and each time I think of writing I shudder to think it. Of all the places, that I would love to write about, but can't begin to write about. So I will not write about them. Have I become this obsessive, compulsive person, that I believe my blog should look like a beautiful calendar with travelogues and poems. Its boring and I am bored of it. My blog will now be a mumbling, inarticulate, mess of thoughts. No more quality control. I shall write bullshit. Yes, bullshit.

There. I have exorcised the ghosts.

Ahem

I am holding up the needle, but the thread I hold between my fingers is shaking from lack of practice. I wonder if I can string words together anymore.

Rome Part 1

Just outside Milano, we encountered this elevated super highway to Rome. It was literally up in the clouds. Visibility was only up to a few feet in front of us. It might have been a grand view to the left of us or the right of us, but we could never tell thanks to the heavy cloud cover that had descended all the way to the highway. And the Italian car drivers were racing past despite the poor visibility in their Ferraris and Maseratis. It was a surreal experience and Krishnan, who was driving, managed to stay out of trouble by trailing the car in front of us. We reached Rome really late, ate out and check in to our hotel.

Early next morning (and if you have been paying attention, early = 10 AM) we caught the train directly to the heart of the city, and took a bus from near Vatican all the way up to the Colosseum. En route the walls of the Vatican came on our left and we went across the Tiber river. On the other side of the Tiber river the streets were cobbled and the buildings appeared antiquated and beautiful. When we arrived at the Colosseum, it was hard to believe we were actually standing before it. It's one of those things you have seen so many times on TV, in magazines and papers, that standing in front of that imposing structure felt like reliving old memories. We stood in a long queue and did the regular touristy trip of the Colosseum. Then we promenaded through the majestic Roman Forum (Forum Magnum), that looms behind the Colosseum with ruins from two thousand years ago. The arch of Constantine greets us at the entrance to the Roman Forum. We were perfectly silent throughout - I wanted to absorb it all so I would be able to talk about it to my grandchildren in full graphic detail.

The Walls

Scratch their backs with fingernails,
And the walls will shake gently from
Side to side. Breathe unevenly,
Giggle, curve their back to your touch,
Wiggle and even turn around
To face you with a lopsided smile.

They have long midriffs,
And protracted wing spans,
Like flamingo birds gliding,
In the sky. They flock together
And hold hands, till their palms
Become sticky and fingers grow
Numb. They like the warmth
Of proximity.

They have long flexible ears,
That twitch at your words,
And twist around your fingers,
At night their faces turn towards you,
And they curl in bed,
To notice everything you do or say.

Milano

Milano

Last december, close to new years, we drove down to Milan from Paris. Reached at 2 AM and spent the next two hours GPS-less, mapless and quite hapless, searching for a nondescript hotel in a place that speaks only Italian. We woke up groggy eyed early in the morning (10AM), and decided to test out the public transport of Milano and navigate our way to whatever it is that one has to see in Milan. (Obviously we had planned out trip immaculately.)

The bus hurled us towards this old fortified fort of a place called Castello Sforzesco. It looks so grand and humongous and they claim Da Vinci had something do with its design and architecture. Later we walked down Via Dante (oooh Dante!), admired some wonderful photographs that were being exhibited and walked up to Duomo di Milano (the cathedral of Milan). There we posed like roman statues to each other's cameras.

Then we ran out of time, had a quick bite of delectable pizza and scrambled into our car and drove to Rome.

(Pictures - Krishnan beeming in front of Via Dante as Debanu readies his camera, Duomo di Milano, Inside the Duomo, Castello Sforzesco)

Old Furniture

There is old furniture in my room,
Sitting around like memories,
But you are welcome to
Bend your body in acute angles.
That way you can stand straight
In my room. I once threw my
Old Piano out the window,
It hit a high note in the main street,
And its keys flew like birds
Released in the sky. That created
Some space in my room.

The window would suck up
The air in my living room,
And blow it outside. The clouds
Would scatter like flaky paint,
Scatter and sometimes fall with
A thud, with the force of gravity.
There would be space in the sky,
But what good is such space?
Errant clouds come back
All the time. Clouds must be like
Traveling gypsies.

The space in the living room heaves
And pants, gapes in the shape of
A yearning for missing pianos.
It needs to be suppressed like
One would a yawn, with a palm
Or fingers. Suppressed by a new piano,
Brand new furniture. It would look
Out the window like a lady waiting
And worrying, cluttering my living
Room like memories are won’t to do.

La Froid en Bruxelles

A trip I did in early November 2007. It was sub zero and we kept missing the exits and getting lost in Brussels. We didn't have a GPS and the roads are bloody confusing in Brussels. Plus we had 3 navigators for the designated driver. And when we finally came back to Paris at 2AM we lost our way again! I think we reached home at 4 AM.

So what did we do in Brussels? We had hot chocolate and tried some of those famous Belgian beers - Leffe, Hoegaarden, Stella Artois. We saw Mannequin Pis and its unbelievably small. But really there wasn't much else to do but walk around the old city. That wasn't bad. There were so many places to stop and eat, all lined up along the narrow streets, and the restaurateurs inviting us persuasively, warmly (sometimes quite annoyingly!) into their shops. Dinner was nice.


April 18th

If there was the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
- The Waste Land

I am the blooming desert,
The rich aridity of the Kalahari
Approaching, encroaching your fecundity,
I am here to soil you, to take
Of you, and leave you replete with a vacancy
And a “Too Late” sign on your balcony.
My deserting you, is like an acceptance of
A smelly embrace. My binding is not a rape,
It’s a birthday party, a naked race,
An emancipation perhaps even an
Atonement. A justification of something
You feared would happen and wished
For all the same.
18th April, on this porch, Twenty
Timid years ago, years aplenty,
I pushed my foot into your gate,
And surveyed the scene and waved,
My hands like a tree with gnarled
Branches, waving at a forest of gnarled
Trees, I wore your husband’s suit,
And the light reflected from
My gold rimmed, glasses,
Square framed. You wore a flowery
Summer dress that flapped like a nervous,
Infant before a tetanus shot. Your eyes,
Were large holes of punctured mountains,
Your face cloudless, the beaten sky
Finite, into a painting framed.
And your arms extended up,
To the wall, that I built around you,
I am the land that surrounds the sky.
I was beneath you, I am above you,
And I shall weave around you now,
Like your flowery summer dress.

I am the father of a thousand, biting
Posters and paper cutouts of me.
They are my voice,
I am their beating, pumping
Organ that suffuses them with
Streams of convincing clarifications.
These twenty years are
Wide hipped women. They have borne
My waiting children and fed them
On evening porridge, that grew
Upon this land. It’s true,
This land has grown in them.
Now I have come again,
To your garden gate. Your husband
Wears my suit and you wear,
That summer dress, flapping like
The blighted page of a sordid book.
That longing look,
Of an empty well.
Your pieces are scattered upon my soil,
And the land grabs with eager hands,
All that lies upon it.
My paper cutouts now line your walls,
They agree, it’s time,
The earth shook in a mad fit,
Did a war dance on its fetid feet,
And drove the sky away.

Ma Mère

The Wheelbarrow Man

Ears flapping from side to side,
Long ears from long years,
Flapping to the veering head wind,
Dust cocooned,
Wheel barrow man,
Grunts and gushes like sewerage,
Chases the road end,
The end road from the
Bylane by the blind lane,
At the cross road to main street,
Tried tires and tired feet,
Dogged dog barking,
Popping poles and free parking,
With a baby in his,
Metal-bound, velvet-lined,
Hardcased, nursery-rhymed,
Wheelbarrow.

Old Madame Sosostris,
Eyes beset in layers,
And layers of wrinkled cheese,
Drugged dugs,
Drags her dripping arms,
Unwinds her window,
To sniff the breeze,
And voila, a dust storm,
She gives a sneeze,
Touches up her antique,
Silver hair passed on to
Her by the giggling ape,
Adjusts her nape,
And sees the wagging tail,
Of the wheelbarrow man,
And in his wake the,
Waving hands, lotioned legs,
Gargling voice of a gaggled face,
Wrapped in paper and duct tape.

Impressionism

It's so silly putting framed paintings on a blog. You can download them from any of the thousand copies on the Internet. But I feel a bit of pride - I saw these Monet Paintings (and many more) with my own eyes at Musee D'Orsay. Yes, the originals. Almost a year back, 'How do we know' sent me a book. It was big and heavy and had a green cover. It had the complete collection of Monet Paintings. When I asked her about the heavy book, she lightly replied that it was her duty to hand the book to its rightful owner. I will never forget that favor.

Back in my childhood days, my father had a collection of art books. There were one's on Renaissance, on Toulouse Lautrec and many others. I remember fondly flipping through the pages. Mom had decided to go back to University and on Saturdays I would visit the Jehangir Art Gallery in Mumbai and sit with the artists on the roadside, until Mom would be done with her lectures. I had painted deer on my bedroom walls and when headlights from cars would flash from outside (I don't know how they reached so high, all the way up to the 20th floor!), the deer would come alive. In the day time after school I would run to my friends apartment and talk about kung fu, girls and sometimes about paintings.

I don't know when I first saw his paintings, but I had learnt to recognize them almost instinctively. Once in San Francisco, at the Museum of Modern Art, I saw a photograph. It had a girl in a garden and they were having breakfast. And I saw in it a Monet. It was not his painting of course, but the photograph was inspired by a Monet painting. I asked the guide, "Monet?" She nodded. That was the first time I saw Monet.

Granny would say, an artist holds a mirror to the world. Does Monet hold a mirror to the world? That lady in the field with red flowers, her face isn't even complete. The boats sailing in the lake, isn't the lake up in the sky and sky down in place of the lake? Then there is the cart that trundles on the snow, the sky is brown and the trees appear blue with snow. The plates on the table take centre stage and the people are the background. The house of parliament a hazy shadow, the sun and its reflection hazier still. The little boy in utter darkness beyond the illuminated curtains and flower pots.

In Monet I see the world.

Elephant Girl

After a long day,
Of paper cups, keyboards and saucepans,
She notices some lines,
Pencil marks under her eyes.
She rubs the mirror.
"Sheets of paper cannot hide,
From an elephant memory."
She decides to think of the bus schedule,
The laundry list,
And other important matters,
While the elephant quickly hides,
Under the writing desk.

Versailles

These are pictures from late October when Mom and Dad had come down to visit me. They found it very cold so we visited places near and around Paris. Versailles is a colossus. Its gardens are the biggest I have seen and the palace is incredibly lavish. Louis IV came here in 1682 and the french kings stayed here all they way until the revolution forced Louis VI out of the palace in 1789. But the place is much older and the first chateau was built here sometime in the 11th century.

The best part about this place is the expansive set of interconnected gardens that are spread across an area of 8000 hectares. In between is a waterbody that is a cross between a lake and a canal. Part of it flows right to the foot of the main Palace. Ships would sail into it at some point in history. There is more than one chateau here. Including a mini chateau gifted to Marie Antoinette with its own chapel and garden. It is all so spread out that it would tire one to walk around the whole place. So mom and dad bought tickets for a tram that shuttles around the palace.

A tree

Old walls connect a distant past,
To a courtyard and a house,
Large spaces inside,
And a restless tree.
Bare branches crawl up,
A side of the wall,
Stick a hand out,
And wave at the passerby.
Hey did you see the winter,
Coming this way?

The passerby stops,
Pops his head out of the hood,
And gives his neck a good shake.
His features blur,
A blank page behind a long nose,
Protected by the shaggy beard.
He says, Pardon,
Je suis sur mon chemin,
And walks away.

The tree squints at the horizon,
Spots a dab of red,
And imagines a sunset,
Behind the gray evening.

Champs Elysees

The street that needs no introduction. Charles De Gaule (pronounced Shah de Goul) stares longingly at one end hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Arc de Triomphe that adorns the other end. The pictures are from early October and the air is so wonderful sans the winter chill. The sky was so clear that day, that when I reached the top of Arc de Triomphe through a long, winding staircase, the city of Paris opened her arms to greet me. The sense of history weighed down upon me - everything around me was hundreds of years old that it made even the Eiffel Tower seem young and sprightly. Originally commissioned by Napolean in his heydays (but alas he never saw it completed), the Arc de Triomphe is now symbolic of all the wars that France has seen. Beneath is the tomb of "The Unknown Soldier" (just like in the Jim Morrison song).

In October the bars and cafes sprawled into the road to bask in the sun. It's hard to find people who speak French on this road as there are hordes of tourists clicking away with their cameras at whatever they can see. The last time I went there was in late October, when Mom and Dad came visiting. Dad was feeling awfully cold so we went into the Grand Palais and saw an exhibition.

The Order

The left right left of peeled faces,
Marching to the fore,
Towards the sweaty shore,
A silent menagerie,
Beneath the livid sea,
Heads and feet emerge for a while,
And subside into a mangled broth.

The circle, circle around the digit,
The cheerful clamor, the fist rigid,
Round and round they go,
A mass of bodies,
Exulting in their nudity,
Stepping upon each wayward mononity,
Shunning the absurdity,
Engulfing a vast multiplicity,
Evening the oddity.

The up down up of unattired limbs,
Untiring, unabashed, indiscriminate revelry,
Gyrating in rhythm to a raucous rhapsody,
Erupting in a communal paroxysm,
Echoing each others emotion,
Churning, churning the ever-life,
To its last sap of youth.

Chateau

This is my home now. And that is my cycle. That sleepy alley leads me to my new home. See how the signs scream 'Gymnase Henri Chapu'. The gym is actually right opposite my house and you can see kids outside the gym on regular evenings. That is my chateau with a beautiful garden. The pictures are from September and that is why the garden is so overwhelmingly green. So many people come to my town just to see the Chateau. Napolean lived here once. But the Chateau is many centuries older than him. It dates back to the times of Louis VII in the 12th century. Close to my town the Barbizon painters painted scores of paintings. In September, I would spend hours at the chateau. Staring at the garden. Admiring the swans, the shapely pond, the clear blue skies.

Those swans have flown away now that it is December. The sky isn't as blue as it was in September. It is predominantly gray, and the sun rises late in the day. It is so cold that my words shiver and refuse to leave the warmth of my home on Rue Henri Chapu.

Hello Goodbye

Said my goodbyes to Malaysia. Jalan Ampang and Bangsar will be soon forgotten, along with Penang, Taman Malawati, the Kelana Jaya line, KL central, Bukit Bintang and many other euphonic names that had been a part of my life for so many months. The country that opened its arms to me is now thousands of miles away. The sun that beat down on me will now be sorely missed. It doesn't rain like it used to, the drops of rain have shrivelled in size and I haven't heard the thunder in months. The termites won't knaw at my cupboard, the fungus won't grow on my damp clothes, and the taxi drivers won't nod and say "ok la!"

My office was on the 39th floor but it was dwarfed by the KLCC that stood next to it. Everytime I looked out my windows the towers stared down at me like a big bully. The annoying presence of the KLCC (Petronas towers) will also be missed. The smelly food courts will be missed, and the thousand shopping malls will be missed. The beautiful Penang beaches will be missed. My lovely Malaysian friends, who adopted me as their own will be missed.

Last night I dreamt that the city had left me behind and moved away. I opened my door and found that the city was gone. Whoosh! Not a soul in sight. That's what happens when you leave your cities behind. They begin to leave you too.

In between the lines

I scribbled roughly into my notebook,
Dark days daubed with charcoal,
The sun can be an underclerk,
In a worn out gray over coat.
On such days my alphabets,
Have a language of their own.

The realm of horizontal lines,
Here is a place for the reasonable mind,
To twist and turn every time,
To the whistle of a toy train,
Meandering to a certainty,
Through tunnels of circumstance,
And hills and vales of happenstance,
To the finality of a shape,
Precluding the possibility of millions,
And millions of other shapes.

Consummation is a warm handshake,
And a cloying smile,
That can be brushed aside,
In all its levity,
Nudged outside just as,
The million others that clamored,
For a chance at the limelight.

Unconquered

Unconquered

Thailand has never been conquered in history. Its palaces and temples glow with undiminished glory. The beholder is left speechless. There is so much to see in Bangkok alone. Buddhist temples can be found in every part of the city, each one more splendid than the other. The Chao Phraya River navigates the city like a serpent. It is an earthy brown in color and carries hundreds of boats across itself everyday.

There is more than one palace in Bangkok. The most famous one is the Grand Palace. It has been around for more than 200 years and kings have continually added to it. The Thai are proud of their kings. On the birthday of the present king Bhumibol (and in fact on every Monday) people wear yellow T-shirts. I was surprised to find a sea of yellow T-shirts at lunchtime on a Monday. You will find portraits of the present king on every street of Bangkok. They really love their king.

I spent most of my time at the Grand Palace. It is incredibly beautiful, and it takes a long time to see all of it. Every bit of the palace is just exquisite (as you can see from the photos). I haven’t seen anything like this before. It also houses the temple of the emerald Buddha. One isn’t allowed to take photos of the emerald Buddha. It is placed at a height on a pedestal that seems to cascade down towards the viewer. It is not a big statue, yet one is attracted to it because it is made of emerald.

I visited many temples while I was in Bangkok. I remember the temple called Wat Pho. It houses a reclining Buddha that is 46m long and 15m high. Besides the statue of the Buddha, I loved the stone statues of warriors placed outside the temple. They look proud and unconquered.

Where he had left

A boat came back to the quay,
The sun calls it a day,
The rain clouds drift away,
Gently. Sagged down like udders,
By the weight of,
Their own self-consciousness.

The old tree that clutches,
At the red earth, sucks in,
Every leaf that goes astray.
The red earth blows,
From her pouting lips,
To smudge all footprints away.
Flotsam that drifts into,
The unforgiving waters,
Is returned with the lowering tide.
No one can get away.

A contoured, cartographic face,
Navigable features and eroded gaze,
He came back to where he had left.
As he spoke, words that left,
His mouth went back in again.
The same way they came.
Memories won’t matter to anyone else.
Thoughts came hurling back at him,
Like a stone thrown skyward with vengeance.
His hands felt empty, yet laden with weight.
His practiced feet walked unswerving,
Tired yet continuing,
As he emerged unscathed,
From a journey around the periphery.

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

Malacca

The King is dead. Long Live the King!

And so it was that kings died and sprung back to life to die again. At the Straits of Malacca. The natives ceded power to the Portuguese. Who ruled for a century only to be driven away by the Dutch. Who signed a treaty in Europe, and transferred Malacca to the British as they withdrew to Indonesia. Then the British, who ruled for a long time until they scuttled away from the Japanese only to be reinstated again after World War II. Later when the British left, Malaysia decided on an innovative form of Monarchy. The rulers of the 9 states choose a King by rotation for a period of 5 years only. But that’s unconnected with the history of Malacca, and I won't digress.

Malacca is one of history's favorite ports. The straits of Malacca were ideal for trading ships to dock for a few days and trade their wares on the river that trickles into the straits. Malacca was famous for spice trade. Militarily too the port was of strategic importance. That is why Malacca has seen a lot of bloodshed.

The city of Malacca is built around a hill. On top of the hill is a chapel. Then around this decayed chapel are placed palaces, gardens and old houses. In recent times the city has crawled down the hill and spread farther and farther landwards. The sea of course has never capitulated to the city.

Those Hands

When you return to humanity,
With your wizened reasoning,
You can explain most everything.
The necessity of shriveled legs,
Of hunger, of crime, of social inequality,
Of unborn babies and your moral probity.

Yet those lips, those kisses,
And those hands that go astray.

You are the son of your father,
With his roving eyes and sensuality,
And your hands must seek and go astray.
Oh, the sweet baseness of your lofty thoughts,
They say your reasoning is just for protection,
A sort of explanation,
And despite all those words and lofty thoughts,
Those hands, they must seek, and go astray.

Communication

These are pictures from back in April from AT&T Park in San Francisco. We went for the opening night Pedros v/s Giants. The Giants lost the match, but the people stayed back and braved the chilly breeze from the bay. We wanted to see the fireworks, for it was opening night! Then after the match we went back to Tres Agaves (a place where I am drawn to almost every night) and had our Tres Margaritas with the nachos and chicken wings.

San Francisco is one of my favorite cities. It has roads that go up and down, wonderful parks, besides of course the beautiful bay. I love getting lost in San Francisco and wandering about like a nomad. I love the weather, the people, the day life, the night life and I have such great friends in San Francisco that I keep coming back.

Communication

Antonio: Noble Sebastian,
Thou letst thy fortune sleep, die rather; wink’st.
Sebastian: Thou doth snore distinctly;
There’s meaning in thy snores.
-The Tempest, Shakespeare


The sounds have been rinsed in water,
And the voices can be heard no more,
Now that we are on different sides,
Of the same surface,
Does my face look funny when I scream?
Do my words appear in little bubbles of air,
And kiss the surface like curious fishes?
Does my hair sway in the water,
Like the algae and waterweed?

I love you, and I think of you,
As our blood trickles through the surface.
Today I am the underside,
Tomorrow …

Little Paper Boat

Kodaikanal

This is a trip I did back in February, before I left Bangalore for good. Like most trips I make, this one happened unplanned and unforeseen. I just bought tickets online, packed my backpack and left.

The strange thing about Kodaikanal is that a jacket of fog covers the place every afternoon at 2 PM. This happens everyday, without fail, as if Kodaikanal had a perennial date at 2PM everyday with some maiden who prefers a foggy jacket. There are the usual touristy places – most of the much-touted ones (like Coaker’s walk) will let you down. You might try cycling around the lake in the center of Kodaikanal. But every now and then you will find solitude in beautiful wilderness. You might stand at the edge of a cliff and lean yourself on the shoulders of a wizened tree with gnarled roots. Like Munnar, this place is full of flowers.

I met this local in Kodaikanal. He speaks a little English, and I understand a wee bit of Tamil. He took me fishing to a lake in a remote area, 2 hours from Kodaikanal. We passed by his home and he showed me where he grew up (the little village in the photograph). He spoke about his life, his girl friends, his future and what he does on weekends. When I returned he called me several times on the phone. We could barely speak, as we hardly know each other’s language. I was supposed to send him the photos but I have lost his address. He doesn’t use email.


Little Paper Boat

She sat in a little paper boat,
And paddled into the Atlantic.
She said she had to live her dream,
As she applied her night cream.
I told her she would get wet,
So she wrapped herself in a towel,
She said she didn’t mind a shower.

Since she’s gone,
In her little paper boat,
(That can barely float),
The waves swim away,
From this desolate shore.
I turn towards the west,
My mind won’t rest,
My eyes look yonder,
For that little boat of paper.

O little paper boat,
Trying to stay afloat,
Bobbing up and down,
Amidst the mid-atlantic waves.
When she looks in her bag,
For her blue plastic cap,
Turn around in quick motion.
In the middle of the ocean,
She won’t notice your rotation.
Then skim across the ocean waves,
And bring her back to me.

Persistence

Munnar and Thekkady

These pictures are from a trip I did back in February. I traveled across the entire district of Idukki in Kerala. I did the beautiful hill station of Munnar, the Eravikulum National Park, the remote villages of Nedumkandam and Ramakalamettu, the Periyar Wildlife Reserve, parts of Thekkady.

It's been a while since I did the trip but surprisingly my memory of the people and places hasn't blurred with time. I still remember the friendly local with the bushy moustache who sat next to me in bus. He didn't speak a word of English but explained everything through sign langauge. I remember the boatride on Periyar river at the crack of dawn. I remember the spicy fish curry I had for lunch and the look on the face of the hapless french lady whom I mistook for the watchman and asked for a matchbox. I remember the mountain goat that stood in front of me and refused to acknowledge my presence and the tea gardens that from a distance look like comfortable green carpets.

I might go back again someday. I have heard the Kurunji, which blooms every 13 years, is a sight to behold.

Persistence

As I chased my shadow in the darkness,
I slipped and fell through the elevator door,
And I have lived here ever since.
Everything stays the same in here,
As we go up and down the tower.
At an arbitrary floor we stop for a while,
To let summer flies inside.
They are welcome to stay,
Hum to the tune of the disenchanted fan,
That breathes out a wind of monotony,
In a black and white persistence.

Beside me is a board of buttons,
Like happy faces that smile at each other.
Each one speaks a different dialect,
Of a foreign language,
But I am sure they say the same thing.
Above the board the speaker coughs and sputters,
The same song over and over again.
Even when I question the speaker I get,
The same words, the same sounds,
Through dayish night or nightish day.

The light shines with a bored brightness,
And if you stare at it for hours,
Shapes lose their shape,
And sizes lose their size.
The floor plunges to an abysmal depth,
And the ceiling jumps to an unimaginable height.
It is then that I hear the knock on the door,
Of the stranger waiting outside.
Within the elevator, I exist,
Locked and trapped in measured space.
He always waits outside.

Fallen

Pondicherry

Pondicherry is a quaint little place with a lot of empty spaces. The roads are like regularly spaced alphabets in a french magazine, with names like Rue Romain Rolland, Rue Labourdonnais. The buildings are like starched white clothes, neatly pressed. The branches of trees are perennially green and laden with flowers. They adorn the houses but are oddly reminiscent of the matted hair of hippies and ascetics alike.

Pondicherry was the home of Late Sri Aurobindo, extremist turned spiritual guru, erudite scholar and an extraordinary gentleman in his own right. Pondicherry was also a french colony and is still home to a lot of French people. It is vibrant with culture, replete with jazz music, good food, wine and a lot of joie de vivre.

The best bit about Pondicherry is that the sea lurks in the background. They haven't got her yet. In the evenings she complains of indigestion but during the mornings she is fine. They think it is the tides. Large stones and boulders keep her tied. At night she is a mad lady who laughs hysterically and her laughter rings through the city. When I was there, I heard her sob silently.

Fallen

Let my life now merge in the all-pervading life.
Ashes are my bodies end. Om.
- Isha Upanishad

Hush, it’s the tentative tiptoe,
On a burning terrace. A sultry surface,
That singes every step into a muffled sigh.
Hop, skip, scuttle but before she leapt.
She stood at the edge and surveyed,
The cloudless sky for a hint of remorse,
A tinge of doubt, ever so slight,
Was there nothing in his eyes?
His head had sagged back like a punching bag,
Wagged like a tail from side to side.
She had watched it, trailed it,
Searched it for a sign.

“I give you these wings, you may fly.”
She spread her wings,
And noticed the world down below.
Those ants that race up and down the anthill,
Nameplates hang from their necks,
Faces are pinned to them and on their shoulders,
They bear a lonely burden.
She squished them too, with her thumb.

The gushing winds said that she had clutched,
At the sky. Her open palms revealed loose strands,
Of hair and a fistful of secrets,
That still clung to her hands and danced midair,
Like marionettes, to a melancholy tune.
She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Time would flow as blood from a wound,
That wouldn’t heal, but the blood had clot,
One day, when the curtains refused to be swayed,
By the plucky breeze at the windowpane.
Since then it hadn’t bled.
The kitchen tap still runs,
The saucepan is on a constant flame,
And the familiar smell still finds its way out,
To the inviting skies. As she fell, she smelt it too,
And rolled in her timeless feathery bed.
The wind was a conch shell to her ears.
He spoke of the patient sea and rows of,
Golden sunflowers and green paddy fields.
She closed her eyes and smiled,
When her fingers brushed the leaves.

She rolled, rolled, rolled in the air,
Like a cigarette rolled around her powdery,
Puffy soul. Roll some more.

Mystic Himalayas

The Intractable Yak

At Changu(Tsomgo) Lake, I rode the intractable yak. He was big and bulky. My friends would agree, he was as stubborn as me. When he was pulled to the right, he moved to the left. When he was pulled to the left, he dragged himself and everybody else to the right. At one point of time he almost dropped me into the frozen lake. The other yaks had all reached their destination. But the intractable yak chose to stand his ground, as if he had a point to make. What global cause did he champion, I couldn't quite guess. He merely looked at the Changu lake and shook his horned head. He was rather stylish in his obstinacy. There was something regal about his adornments, his gait, even his hairstyle all gelled up and styled like Elvis perhaps.

But the intractable yak had met his match. If he wouldn't move, neither would I budge from his back. After careful consideration, he came to a decision. He reasoned that he could champion his noble cause after he had dropped me to my destination. So he walked slowly by the lovely Changu Lake and even nodded his head in agreement with whatever I said.

A Prayer

Aditi,
Make the leaves shiver with your breath,
Of cold numbness and frigid solemnity,
Catch the moon undulating in a pool,
Of gentle nuances and half gestures.
Hear the river bubble upon rocks,
And roar in agony at every bend.

I still see you standing there,
Knee deep in water,
Cotton clothes that smell of cotton clothes,
Duly soaked, washed, rinsed, crinkled,
And baked in the sullen, smoky sun.
Still see the fishes around you,
That kiss the watery surface of moss-coated rocks,
And the drowsy, dewy-eyed breeze,
Laden with frangipani, bunches of frangipani,
Carefully woven into necklaces, wreathes and bands,
And recklessly stamped.
Those whorls of hair,
Pleated, permed, frizzed, curled, crumpled, lumped,
Flowing in the wind, for miles and miles,
I felt them last night, while asleep,
Twisted the idle strands of hair,
Around my fingers, and smelt them.
Look they led me here to you.

Aditi, grant me this wish Aditi,
They say your fat fingers,
Can weave a spell around the crescent moon,
Send the clouds into a tizzy,
Bring them crashing into the mountains.
They say your big eyes,
Can see through the night,
And seek out the somnolent sun.
They say you charmed the bees one day,
And turned them into butterflies,
Or was it fireflies?
Aditi, Will you do this for me?
Please listen to me.
The long winding forest path upon the gravelly red soil,
That churns the day into the night.
Lost amidst the similar trees,
May her eyes seek me,
At every corner, at every tree.
Where the silence echoes and the sound is still,
May she hear my voice in the rattling leaves.
The wind gushes in through the windows,
Scrapes the flaky walls of the lonely house,
May she wait for me at the creaky door.

Tide Country

In December, I went on a cruise to the Sunderbans. These are 56 islands of dense mangrove forest. They say it is the largest mangrove forest in the world. Hugli, Sattarmukhi, Bulcherry, Matla and Gusaba are some of the rivers that cradle these islands. Like the eternal mother these rivers give birth to new islands each year and submerge someothers like they had never been.

The river sustains the inhabitants of the islands. Mangroves suck up the salt water, and cover up like a monk's cloak, every available patch of uncovered land. Their roots bind the land together. Under their nurture and care, and the supervision of Bon Bibi(the tribal deity), prosper many species of flora, small animals, even the majestic royal Bengal tiger.

Our boat floated like a debris - we stood out in relief to this place so alive. If our spirits had been mottled by the city's tired breath, here we breathed fresh air, stared up in wonder at the blue sky and looked down every now and then at the glistening river. At night we looked at the sky and wondered if we had ever seen stars before.

Some of these islands are inhabited by humans. One of them is Bhagabatpur. Here we made a brief stop, during high tide. We took in some of their island life to survive in us as memories. They would remind us of life when we are back in the city, encumbered in our quiet, comfortable existence. When the tide began to recede, we went back to out boat and made our way back home.




Tide Country

Mangrove swamps on either side,
Eyelids of your sparkling eyes.
What childish dreams you dream all day.
Earthen houses, earthen pots and pans,
Even your hands are made of clay,
Every day is work and play.

Longish boats on brackish waters,
Are dark silhouettes before the orange sun.
Low tide and high tide,
Moonlight and sunlight,
Are two sides of an uneasy sleeper,
Tossing and turning in bed.

Mud children of the mangrove swamp,
Hide their melting smiles from the sun,
And flap their wings at dusk.
Evenings roar like a beast,
But the night is silent,
Like the ripples of the Ganga.

Hark the sound of the lonely boatman,
Paddle on, paddle on,
Turn every turn of the twisting river.
The mangrove swamp shall follow them,
And open wide her hungry mouth,
To taste the seawater.

To Passion

The knife’s edge looks to belong,
Longs to be a part of you.
Did you know that every glimpse of you,
Draws me closer to my destiny?
Every moment of the way,
From the staircase to the dusty bylane,
Is a splinter.
As you walk up to me,
The knife twirls in my grip,
Why don’t you notice me, even look at me?

Every sunset is a splash of red.
See, this in my hand,
Is a sunset brilliant red.
I have it in my fist,
Turning like the plastic globe,
Hold on to it like a drowning man to his last breath,
This is it, this is it.
This is the color of your lips, the wind against your hair,
This is every throbbing of your heart,
Every gasp of air you breathe,
And this is the clear cloudless sky,
Of your distant, intangible eyes.
See how the knife's blade sways with the wind.
This is it, this is it.

Do you feel it now?
Look at me, does the knife edge,
Seek every drop of your attention?
The faceless people stare blankly at you,
They drift with the wind like sail boats.
This is I. Rooted to this pit.
Recognize me, this is my face,
And this is my poignant gaze.
These are my cruel eyes,
Dark clouds in disguise.
These are my scars screaming, aching,
Every sinew boiling, brimming,
Clutching, Scratching.
Sinking.
I swear by the edge of this knife,
The earth will open up and all its fire,
Will burn you, like it has burnt me,
Hold on to me, this is it,
For you and me.

The Doorbell

Per me si va ne la città dolente,
per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,
per me si va tra la perduta gente.

-Inferno Canto III


The doorbell rang softly.
Amidst the din of the night,
Half asleep in bed,
I decided it was a dream,
And began to pretend to sleep.
It rang again like an afterthought,
With the dying smoke of a cigarette butt,
And clung to me like a supplicant,
In dire need of help.

At my door was a traveling salesman,
Dressed in a winter fog.
An eager smile buttered his bready face,
And he promptly said “Hello,
The sun won’t rise today.”
I looked beyond him with doubt.
Yes, the sky was blacked out.
“Will it rise tomorrow then?”
He shook his head like a tree,
And with a grave voice he said,
“You haven’t paid your dues.”
This was bad news.
He left me with a leaflet,
And drifted away like a bobbling bottle,
In the middle of a wavy night.

The fluttering leaflet wailed,
An infant unattended in distress,
An inscrutable voice in every page,
That cried, I haven’t paid my dues.
The dues, the dues, the dues.
The futile sound of my views, your views.
The emptiness of a creaky swing,
That moves to and fro.
Swings higher, swings low.
The sun won’t rise today,
Nor tomorrow, nor the day after.
An eternity stares after a traveling salesman.

Stories

The night was silent,
Except for us, who drawn by the light,
Had hissed sotto voce,
Into each other’s ears.

Even the stones have stories,
And the dark alley with stony walls,
Had a silent story to tell,
One that rings a bell.
A story made of awkward pauses,
One pause beside another,
With their arms around each other,
And then a train of thought,
Interjected by a pause,
Then another pause, then another.

A long pause, suitably long,
A lifetime when you close the eyes,
Sepia memories in soft sighs,
A worn out cloth tinged with emptiness,
Loose threads like fingernails,
Held together by human stains.
A long pause, in the corridor.
Hollow voices look around,
One room after another.
Wake up, they are here.
Sprawled sleeper in a somber bed,
Woken up, his eyes red,
Gropes around the forgotten walls.
Don’t touch the wall,
There are pictures on them all.

Time turns around a winding staircase,
As you race upstairs,
Every step disintegrates.

Every step disintegrates.

Plaintive Cries from the Underground

Through a crevice,
In the soil,
Rose a plaintive cry.
Beat it down gently,
And cover it with mud.

Can you hear it still?
Of course you can’t,
It’s that cotton in your ear.
Where’s it coming from,
Haven’t we plugged all the holes?

From the crevices,
For there were more,
Gnarled hands arose.
Take that, take that you,
Clumsy boor.

What seeds have you planted,
Bungling bumpkin,
Look the plants are out,
To get us today,
Not a moment’s delay.

Run as fast,
As your legs can take you,
But the gnarled hands,
Are waving at us,
Clamoring for more.

Trapped underground,
With loose soil,
Our plaintive cries,
Fall on blind ears,
Our gnarled hands behold.

8 Random Things about me... (From How do we know’s blog)

1. Once in a hotel room in Lonavala, a cloud came in through a window and disappeared through another.
2. Where I grew up as a child, we were on the 20th floor and the wall facing the Arabian Sea was made of glass.
3. Sometimes I have dessert before food. Sometimes all I eat is dessert, especially if it’s chocolate icecream.
4. My favorite cartoon strip is Calvin and Hobbes. I also like reading Dilbert, Tintin and Asterix.
5. I check out the art galleries in every city I visit. I love shopping for others. I love trying out different kinds of food.
6. In my ancestral home we had a creeper plant (bottle gourd) that started in our front yard and went all the way up to the rooftop. I fancied climbing down from our first floor balcony using the creeper.
7. Elvis Presley posters are all over my cubicle. I also have a lovely Beatles poster and a Jimi Hendrix Calendar.
8. I can’t wake up in the mornings. I can ignore the loudest alarm clocks. I can sleep through a barking Bruno. Sometimes when I have to see the sunrise, I don’t go to sleep.

I tag anyone who wants to do it!

To Freedom

Sand dunes will forget,
Every transgression of your footstep.
The wind can live without,
The shrill speech of your silent doubt.
The buzzards will look aside,
And leave your corpse to die.

Shards of hope still hang from trees,
These days they smell of futility.
Perhaps your dismal dance of death,
Is better than eternal complicity.
The parched land will darkness await,
As you plunge into the golden sunset.

(Pic from national geographic)

The Blue Blob

When did you become,
A blue little blob in the sky?
Amorphous and rather shapeless,
Like a memory from the distant past.

Unforeseen like a ketchup stain,
So naked and unmitigated,
A mysterious blue blob,
In a blind lane.

That dripping paintbrush,
Drips blue little drops,
Splosh, splosh on my face,
Wash away every trace.

The blue ocean in a bathtub,
With his pretentious waves,
His hands stretched towards,
The blue blob in vain.

Two Poems for an Old Friend

Old Friend

“I didn’t notice you for so long. But I see that you are chasing me like a shadow.”
“Yes, yes.”
“What yes? Why are you following me like that? Go chase somebody else.”
He stopped for a while and looked confused. But then, as though from habit, he started following me again. So I turned around to look him in the eye. He stood still with his head bowed down.
“Who are you?” I asked him.
“Why, I am your friend. I am an old friend” he replied.
Why had I never noticed him all this while? But if he says he is an old friend, he must be. Who knows?
“How long do you know me?” I asked him.
“I know you for a long time. I am an old friend”, said he.
“Ok. Then you can follow me, I guess.”

He smiled an eager smile and followed me with a spring in his stride. Indeed he followed me so well that sometimes I didn’t know who was following whom. I wanted to speak to him, but I didn’t know him so well. If he is my old friend, shouldn’t I know him too?
“Do I know you?” I asked him.
“Of course! I am your old friend”
“But I can’t remember you.”
He stopped and scratched his head.
“What an idiot!” I said.

This charade went on for a while. Days dropped like water from a leaky tap. Months gloomily collected days like buckets collect water. By now I have completely forgotten him. Sometimes I turn around and don’t even see him there. But he must be somewhere.
“Where are you?”
Where did he go? I remember him sometimes. I hope he hasn’t forgotten me.
“Are you there, old friend?”


By the Stars

In my balcony, they hung the stars,
It hurt the sky and left some scars,
Then they set me to a side,
By the door, and bid me to abide.
Laws and rules – pay attention,
Yes, you – they should suffice,
And the music of the night,
That is nothing but pretension.

The moment they looked away,
The little rabbit ran astray,
Oh things are what they are,
And when did questions take us far.
So I hung me by the stars,
Twinkled brightly in the night,
When it hurt I smiled,
And with the sky I hid the scars.


Pop Goes the World

So we walked, hand in hand,
You led the way and dragged me on,
In the darkness of the night,
The slippery road is a tough climb.

I don’t know when I lost my strength,
My legs wouldn’t move anymore,
What did you drag me for?
See the trail you left before.

Ofcourse I had to let you go,
You told me I would freeze in snow,
But the sky looks nice and clear,
Did you ever try lying here?

When you stick your tongue out,
The snow goes pop like the world.
A million faces in the sky,
Are all amused, see how they smile.

(Picture - Seated Faune, Picasso)

Wine

“What’s wrong with you, why are you laughing so much?” she said.
“I have noooo idea!” he laughed some more.
“It’s the wine I am sure.”
“It’s not the wine, it’s the vine!”
“Vine?”
“Yeah! Where do you think the wine came from?” he laughed uncontrollably.
“Please stop your stupid jokes!”
“Now listen to this one. This is my favorite song. Elvis Presley. May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he said with mock entreaty in his voice.
She gave him her hand, and he did an exaggerated bow!
“Is it too loud? The neighbors …”, she said.
But he held her hand and they started dancing.
“Don’t be cruel, to a heart that’s trueeee”, he copied Elvis.
“Ha Ha! What’s wrong with you?” she laughed.
“Nothing!” he said.
“What are you doing? Leave me!” she wrenched herself loose. Then she smiled awkwardly.
“Why should we be apart? Really love you baby, cross my heart!” he sang to her.
“Somebody is singing tonight!” she said. She moved away and checked her cell phone.
“Oh! So how’s he?”
“Fine!” she looked away.
“Like vine?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Such a lovely night. Man, I really love Elvis Presley!” he said to her. He went to the washroom and washed his face. He looked at the mirror and saw his face, denuded, like desert land. He practiced his smile but the mirror ignored that. So he washed it some more. Yet the smile seemed out of place. This time he couldn’t stop his tears as he stared at the face.
“Like wine”, he said wistfully as he stared at his red eyes.
“What did you say? By the way what are we doing for dinner? You know, I have to leave early”, she said from the drawing room.

He buried his face in a towel and wiped hard till his face peeled off and floated down like a leaf, slowly to the floor. This time he didn't look at the mirror.
“You know what, lets go dancing tonight!” he said cheerfully and began to laugh.

All the perfumes of Arabia

"Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?"
-Macbeth

As a kid, I may have starred as a flower or a tree on stage, and captivated the audience by the originality of my expression. I vaguely remember such appearances. I must have been ten when I got my first starring role. It was that of Georgie Porgie (you can imagine what I was supposed to do on stage!) My performance got some critical acclaim. They said I was a natural in that role. I was so good that one of the girls on stage actually cried even before I had kissed her. I kissed her all the same - I was a true professional even in my early days. Offers poured in after that and I had a hard time refusing people. After much dithering, I accepted the role of a coughing boy and starred in a one-act play. The critics panned the play but appreciated my sterling performance. No one has ever coughed better on stage, they wrote. The expression on my face was enough to bring the audience to tears. One of the ladies even came up on stage. She had to be reassured, "Madam, he is only acting!"

There ensued a string of stellar performances. Most notably that of a mad jailer. I executed one prisoner after another with startling conviction. The performance was terrifying. The audience was so terrified that most of them left in the first half hour. Later, I even got a letter from the prison authorities. I think they were offering me a job, but I am not so sure of that.

Currently I am rehearsing for a play that could be termed as 'the turning point' of my career. The role is that of a mad doctor. When the director described it to me she said it was the role of a doctor. These days she refers to it as the role of the mad doctor, I am not sure why. Need less to say, it is a pivotal role. The role requires great emotional variety, though all I do is laugh throughout my performance. It is not easy to express sadness, anger and the entire range of emotions through laughter, but I think I can pull it off.

The director is very impressed with me so far. I have even assured her that the critics have always liked my performances even if the audience couldn't understand it. Funny, how nobody ever asked me who my critics are. Besides why should they, since they know I am my greatest critic. The director is so happy with me that she has promised me a one-way ticket to somewhere. By the way she winks at me, I am sure she is talking of Broadway.

My Mother

I'd like to write about the solitary lamppost and the melancholy night. Or muddy puddles and the orphan child. But I didn’t ever tell you about my mother. For it's so hard to talk about her. It’s not that her hair is on fire. Nor is she the definition of motherhood. There are even times that I hate her. She has her flaws, and sometimes that is all I see in her. Othertimes I see them not. My mother would have her qualities, and I would freely write about her, if only I could see her qualities for what they are. I am just glad she is always there.



(My Mom's on the right)

A Pebble in the Beach

Waves of emotion undulate,
Hold hands and together,
Splash,
On the stony face of an ancient land.

A little pebble on the rocky beach,
Like an old missive, a torn page,
Has some scribbled words, hardly legible.

The sun bleeds on the liquid sea,
Dissolves itself in a cup of tea.
The rising tide will set aside,
Little pebbles, and petty memories.

Travelogue - Tsomo Riri

The soldiers stared at us with their sunburnt faces. They were surprised to see us there - Karzok 15075 ft. A little village by the Tsomo Riri lake. It was twilight and the Lama was in a hurry. This little village has no electricity. No roads and no phone lines too. One of the soldiers said, "The Gompa is closing, go in." I thanked him and went in.

In the darkness inside, we made out the shapes of idols. The door shone brightly with the light outside. The Lama moved deftly between the shapes. To my questions, he smiled his practiced smile. Ofcourse we had no idea what was inside until the flash of my camera revealed all in a trice. Rows of idols all gloriously decorated. And the interiors so old and grand.

Outside, the sun set upon an enchanting lake. Hills looked upon it, mesmerized, and the gusty wind threatened to blow us away. Green pastures of grass on which grazed horses. A brown house in the middle of nowhere. We stayed the night. Next morning after the orange sunrise, we cut across the mountain and made our own roads.

Tsomo Riri

Her voice rings through,
The cinnamon hills,
Baked brown in a bright sun.
Hers, is a voice that brims over,
The rippled waves,
And gushes through,
The jagged cliffs,
Into an ancient edifice,
Where a lone bell sings,
Of an ancient man,
And his whispered words.

Happy men with burnt faces,
Build hopeful roads,
That stand for a while,
And are washed away,
By brooks of muddy water.
In the distance,
Her voice still rings,
And the bell still sings,
And the sun-baked hills,
Still stare lovingly,
At her rippled waves.

Travelogue - The Gompas of Leh

Hemis -
Hemis is among the oldest gompas in the region - dates back to 1630 AD and is built on the site of a 12th century cave monastary. When I was there, they were celebrating the Hemis Festival. Like most Gompas, it's on top of a hill. Outside is a big courtyard which is where the festivities take place. Inside is a 17th century heritage frozen in time. Cramped in the small space are monks and commoners alike. Golden statues and old cloth paintings stare at them.



Thiksey -
The most beautiful of all monastaries. Little cubes stacked up, taper heavenwards. From atop the monastary behold a barren desert-land, and patches of green. In their midst hides the city of Leh.



Shey Palace -
The old palace of the kings of Ladakh. It looks good from the outside. But the insides are eaten up by a parasite called time. The Gompa here, is a simple one. If you can brave the heat, the scorching sun and the unsteady steps, climb up to the top of the structure - Shey offers you a view, you won't forget.



Stok -
The new palace. And a little a museum that adjoins this palace. Couldn't get a glimpse of the queen.



Shanti Stupa -
A gift from the Japanese. It is the highest point in the city and you can spend hours out here, staring at the cityscape.



Spituk -
A buddhist monastary like any other. Except the Hindus believe, that the deity is Goddess Kali. A rich Hindu patronage has had even the Buddhist Lamas encourage this belief. The 'Kali' temple, is on a hill above the traditional Gompa - looks great at sunset.


The Lonely Flame

The wind sneaks in,
Through the yawning door,
To tease a lonely flame.
In the eternal night of this place,
Red monks chant prayers,
In an earthy voice.

The trembling shadow of a hand,
Rings a bell,
In the mind of the transfixed listener.
All sounds will die within.

Yet, somehow, through the sleepy gate escapes,
The musty smell of hope,
Soft sighs of tranquility,
And the simple smile of a face,
Made alive by a timeless, flickering flame.

Travelogue - Pangong Tso

It is a lake in Ladakh, on the Indo-China border. Surrounded by bare mountains, the lake is like the veiled face of a belly dancer, with eyes that seduce the onlooker. It changes colors by the minute. Everytime you look at it, it is a different shade of blue, green, red, yellow, silver or even black.

For those dreary people that see the world numerically, here are some figures to consider. The lake is at an altitude of 14350 ft and is 134 km long, making it the longest one in Asia. It is a rough and rugged 5 hour drive from Leh, that winds across Changla Pass (17300 ft). We left in the wee hours of the morning – it was sub zero temparature when we reached the Pass. On our way back, the temparatures were very high, and some of us where knocked out by the lack of oxygen and the scorching sun. The road is scenic, with patches of greenery, horses and herds of Pashmina goats. Army outposts abound, and one requires the District Commisioner’s prior approval to travel in these parts. All these contribute to the intrigue and charm of Pangong Tso.

Pangong Tso

The last time I looked,
You were sad forlorn,
What happened,
That you smile at me now?
Did I tell you,
About your expressive face?
That shows those dark thoughts,
And those bright, cheerful ones.
Remember last time, I knew at once,
That you were angry with me.

It’s no use hiding from me,
Come on, come clean now,
I have been watching you for a while.
Just a smile will not do,
And don’t you try imitating me –
That makes me mad.
Now what, why so sad,
Did I say something that vexed you?
I am sorry.
Oh! But I can’t leave you alone,
I have to see everything,
Know everything about you.

Travelogue - The Manali-Leh Road

The bus ride the next day was an incessant climb. After a while we found ourselves so high that we even left the tall conifers behind. Stray grasses and beautiful violet, yellow and pink flowers were all we had for company. They tried their best to hide the stark naked mountains that boldly stared back at us. Even the sky had some how changed. Perhaps we were scared to look at the mountains that we perpetually stared at the blue bedsheet sky and watercolor clouds. We were completely at their mercy now. A little stream called Chandra, joined forces with another called Bhaga and formed a bigger stream called Chandrabhaga. Closeby, we camped for the night in a place called Keylong. Keylong had many narrow alleys. People huddled together now - there were so few people around.

Early next morning we left planet earth and landed on the moon. Moon rocks surrounded us and it was awfully cold. There was so little oxygen in the air and we wondered why we hadn't brought our spacesuits. We drank lots of water and hoped we would survive the ascent. First came Baralacha-La Pass (16060 ft), then the dizzy Tunglang-La Pass (17780 ft) until we finally descended to the relative security of Leh (10800 ft). Everybody had suddenly fallen silent. The Indian family that was traveling with us felt certain they would not survive this. The middle-aged British tourist muttered he hadn't seen anything as beautiful - not even in Iceland. The Frenchman frantically took pictures of everything he saw. I was not in the bus. I had left my body behind and become a cloud in the sky.

Pang is a place between Baralacha-La Pass and Tunglang-La Pass. There was a river that once flowed here. It had etched out a gorge that gave this eeriness to the scenery.

Pang

Faces writhed in pain,
Suffer in silence the agonies,
Of human inquisitiveness.

Sunburnt to a distant brown,
They are earthy memories,
Cloaked in sandy forgetfulness,
That stare heavenward,
At the flippant puffs,
Of the cold uncaring sky.

Streams of crystal tears,
Caress tough stones below,
As they drip down,
Along the etched destiny,
Of this human terrain.

On these faces,
Like a whirling dust,
Appears the phantom,
Of a naked ascetic,
That leaves his footprint,
On the ancient sand.

He turns to look,
His face a smile,
Of cruel apathy.
At once those faces,
Turn to him.
A heart-rending cry,
Beseeching sympathy.
And yet he walks on,
And sees in this pain,
Some unknown beauty.

Travelogue - Manali

It sounded like bubbles. And lots of water. Opened my eyes to a bright sun but then I dozed off again and dreamt of yellow submarines and octupus’s gardens. And bubbles and lots of water. And then I heard the sound of bubbles below us. It was a bridge. From one side to the other. We went left to right if you were looking downstream. An ordinary bridge to the naked eye. But quite magical really. Really magical. The world looked different if you crossed it. Magical mountains sprang up from nowhere. Apple trees covered it. And a frothy river called Beas (Bee-aas) gushed out as if it were frightened of something.

I walked all day and remembered Sisyphus as I panted up the mountains. Little girls with baskets full of apples ran up the hills. They looked back at me and laughed. An old man overtook me effortlessly and sped away up the mountain. I yelled out to him and asked where he was going. He pointed to an apple orchard. That is where I went. I sat down under an apple tree and wondered if I was dreaming. Soon afterwards I slept off under the tree. When I woke up it was near sunset. I came down from the mountains.

I had to catch a bus the next day.

Yellow Houses and Red Houses

I am back from Ladakh. It was a trip and I am still recovering from it. There is so much to say but I'd much rather smile at you and say nothing. For there is nothing that I might say that will make you feel what I felt or see what I saw. I have many, many photos and I will post them as soon as I am home to the comforts of my broadband.

I decided to make a small stop at my birthplace - a city called Calcutta. That is where I am now, learning how familiar this place is to me, even though I have been away so long.

I found some inspiration that I penned this poem down.

“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are friends of each other”,
Says the common clothesline,
To the cracked cement floor,
That lives next door.

A gentle hand that drips of kindness,
But is worn with worries,
Hangs the cotton smell,
Of a man at work,
On the common clothesline.

On the other side, wet footsteps,
Gingerly tread the burning floor,
The smiling cracks,
Then swallow the imprints,
As soon as she steps inside.

In a room inside,
Loud smells escape,
Imminent torture from,
Dutiful ladles and spoons,
And an earthen oven.

In the dismal din,
And the smoky haze,
A mother hums,
A black and white song,
With lots of color.

On the roof above,
Poltu flies a cloud,
In the Kite-filled sky.
Pomy claps her hand,
And eggs it on.

In the westward room,
Which the clothesline cannot see,
Riya stares at the mirror,
And the comb runs itself,
On her big black hair.

In the corner of the mirror,
Kabir’s face is a smile,
He points to his watch,
As the friendly window sill,
Puts his arm around him.

The wizened cement floor,
Cracks into a smile,
And says to the clothesline,
“Yellow houses and red houses,
Are made for each other”.

Touch the sky

Taking a break from routine life. This time I have set my sights high. I am going to touch the sky. Wish me luck!

Won't be back for a while. Until then enjoy these amazing pictures from Hemis Gampachen and Tso Moriri.