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.

Coffee Clouds

Coffee clouds in hidden hills,
Are echoes of green and blue.
Like lover boys,
They chase careless cliffs,
To steal a kiss from you.

Mist covers the rising sun,
Day dreams are dipped in dew.
The mellow rocks,
Have lost their voice,
So I sing their song for you.

To a proud girl

I spend dark hours looking at you,
Wondering what’s that wild fire,
Within you, that swiftly spreads,
Whichever way the wanton wind,
Of your willful gaze chooses to blow.

There seated among distant dreams,
And proud ideals of my captive mind,
With a raised chin and resolute lips,
So sure of their royal bloodline,
You turn with perfect ease upon,
The waiting world, cast a cursory glance,
And look at them no more.

Expressions mask with hidden haste,
What the naked face might betray,
For the enchanted world should never know,
What lurks behind those haughty eyes,
Is a little girl that cries, at the dark night,
That prevails on the restless forest,
Deep inside her untamed heart.

It catches me

It catches me like summer fever,
That shakes me from within.

A splash of water on my lost expression,
Washes away the unwillingness,
And equivocation of my limbs.
Then my mind is a flying fish,
Flipping around and tossing about,
The wavy notions of watery thought.

It possesses me like the approaching,
Shadow of someone, lengthened,
By the dreamy, departing day.

Pursuit of meaning

Lost myself,
In the woods one day,
With trees and bees,
That look like words.

Thoughts of mine,
Make distant sounds,
Like fluttering wings,
Of evening birds.

Little forest path that winds,
Bends and curls,
Through shrubs and vines,
Stretches on for miles and miles.

Who knows,
Which way it goes.
Whichever way,
T'will be my home.

The Escapade

Stuck in the starry sky,
A glittering bulb of light,
Overlooks the game of life,
With a silent silver smile.

Little children are we,
Hiding in big bodies,
Pretending to each other,
Reveling in trickery.

From the terrace high,
Look down from the sky,
Little alley below,
Beckons you to go.

Leave behind your innocence,
For another night,
Somnolent city sleepeth,
Time to close your eyes.

(Picture - Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero in "Chilpéric" by Toulouse-Lautrec)

Travelogue - The bumpy ride to Ooty

The bumpy ride to Ooty wasn’t short of thrills and excitement. When we were tired of laughing at my uncle’s jokes we would look outside to see all the patterns the clouds would make in the blue sky. In the distance, the blue hills of Nilgiri gradually began to dominate the landscape giving us a foretaste of what was to come. The average ordinary trees began to be replaced by tall conifers and eucalyptus trees. Lurking in the greenery a pair of shiny eyes would suddenly manifest itself in the form of deer and nilgais. The odd wild elephant might also be found brushing its tusk against the tree bark as though this action were prescribed by a dentist! The big cats chose to stay hidden. The Bangalore-Ooty highway passes through the Bandipur and Mudumalai forest reserves. Although both boast of a decent tiger population there aren’t many who can claim to have seen any. One begins to wonder if this is all a hoax especially when one reads the rather suspicious message on the forest department website that cautions “Wild cat sightings are rare as they are masters of camouflage and prefer to stay hidden”.

The road crept into the mountain and silently curled round it like a woolen muffler. As if on cue, the weather began to feel nippy. And it was peak summer! Spells of light rain lashed against the car windshield but did little to deter us from our quest for a good holiday. Miles and miles of forest are an album of beautiful images, enough to content the photographer in our minds. Every now and then at forest checkposts and state borders, human settlements mushroom awkwardly like patches of weed in a little homely garden. This is where we stopped for tea, grown amply in the slopes of the Nilgiri hills.

At Gudalur two roads leave for Ooty. One of them passes through the sleepy hill station of Coonoor, the other through the unending grasslands of Pykara that carpet the hilly slopes of Nilgiri. We chose the latter. Standing on the slopes at Pykara, one unselfconsciously looks for golf clubs and 18th holes. The view is an endless array of blue-green mountains punctuated by lakes and hilly streams. As our car trundled along the grassy slopes of Pykara, clouds and darkness finally got the better of the sun. Silence, darkness and chilly mountain air put me to sleep until the spluttering engine woke me up finally. It was 10 pm and we were finally in Ooty.

(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Yellow Leaf

My little cousin sister came visiting. She isn't so little anymore. But I feel as protective as ever. These photos are from my trip to the Niligiri Hills. It was really beautiful and I will post more photos soon.

For now I leave you with this slightly melancholic poem ...

A sheepish wind,
Blows a yellow leaf,
From her tenuous bindings,
With an unsuitable tree.

Twirl, twirl,
Like treacherous time,
Unwinds the screw,
That fixed my hopes and wantings.

Captured by my longing gaze,
She duly waits,
For turbid time,
To take its course.

Something Missing

Something is missing,
In the blueness of the sky,
It isn’t blue enough,
In the reflection of my eye.

It doesn’t seem right,
The silent tranquility,
Of my lazy afternoon slumber.
Is it the sluggish apathy,
Of my half-closed eyes?
I’d dare not look,
Nor try to know,
The truth outside.

Something missing in that,
Well-known smile,
That filled so many coffee cups.
Tell me, is it really a smile?

Some eerie feeling,
Haunts my lovely home,
Stolid curtains,
And vacant windows,
Look outside.
Even the wind,
Blows in gasps,
Of frigid apprehension.

Lines

Straight lines and curved lines,
Twist and Turn,
And circumnavigate,
Some curvilinear space.
Sometimes the lines meet,
Sometimes they separate.

They live in an unliving maze,
Of random events.
A spark of chance,
Renders a smile,
A voice,
Even a face.

A turn of events,
Like an expression in a face,
Is a moment of joy,
And long lasting pain,
An undying hope,
That it’s not in vain.

The Trifling Trinidadian

The man from Trinidad appeared one night, out of thin air, and knocked on my door one morning at four. I squinted my sleepy eyes as I opened the door and made out a silhouette amidst all the dogs barking in the darkness somewhere. He wore a grin and brought with himself some good humor and a memory of the good old days. The sun, orange with delight, promptly rose from slumber and spread across my city a shower of golden eagerness.

Couple of omelets later, we realized breakfast wasn’t quite complete without a sip of good old rock music. Of late, my man from Trinidad has been spoilt rotten on Soca and local rum. Bring on the Van Halen, bring on sweet Led Zeppelin. As music played and the guitar wailed, the day began to slip away. I clasped at it with my fist but it still slipped away through my fingers.

Later that night, old friends came to life straight from the pages of my photo album. Laughter rang through the walls of my home, like from a ticklish baby. Conversation flowed at the speed of sound. Before it was too late the friends disappeared into their respective photo albums.

Drowsy eyed I stared at his book of a face and read every line of what had happened since he had sailed away to Trinidad. I thought of telling him that he had left heavy luggage behind. He showed me his picture book. Little images of Trinidadian life. Ah, the decadence, the sunshine and the sultry beaches. He showed me her photo, the one he had ‘limed’ with. She was very pretty. He told me stories and incidents and wove a web of images that are still so fresh in my mind.

Another night, another morning, another lunch, a few words and moments later, the man from Trinidad showed me the last trick in his bag of tricks. He turned around and vanished into thin air.

The Clock - Part 2

There goes the sun,
And here it comes again.
The tiny hand of my clock,
Will tick all day,
And I will stare at it, all day,
And watch the sun go down again.

Then, on a brand new day,
Someday,
When I look to the west,
I will see the sun rise,
And that will be the day,
That the tiny hand,
So bored of routine,
Will actually turn otherwise.

May be that day,
I will go home early,
Come back to work,
And go home,
To have breakfast and wake up.
May be that day,
I will wake up to my sleep,
And sleep off to awakedness,
On a dark drowsy last night.

Then, some other day,
I will rise up in the east,
And the sun can go to work,
Instead of me.
May be he will set,
A few things right for me.
That day,
You will all feel very hot,
And I will make sure,
You soak in sweat.

That day,
I will travel the whole world,
And say “Hi” to many friends,
Spread around the world.
Some of them feel neglected, you know.
The rest,
Mired in their busy schedules,
Have no time to spare.
But they can always,
Look up to the sky,
And find me there.
May be that day,
I will tell them,
All that I have never,
Been able to say.

Later in the evening,
I will promptly fade away,
Into the night,
And never come back.

I wonder,
Will anybody miss me the next day?



(Update: Found time and added to my short story)

The Clock - Part 1

Does your clock tick faster,
Than mine?
Mine ticks very slow.
It doesn’t move at all, sometimes.

See it’s stuck right now,
Won’t budge. Lazy clock.
Yours must be faster,
I’m sure.

Whoa! Look at yours…
Racing past!
Never mind,
We'll talk someother time.

Lord Bruno

Mighty Bruno,
Lets out a growl so low.
He is lord of his alley,
And wont let anybody pass by,
Without the close scrutiny,
Of his condescending eye.

His only weakness,
A momentary glimpse of meekness,
Is a bowl of milk,
Or a delicious mutton bone.
No sharing with his ilk,
His lordship will have it alone.

The neighbor’s new dog,
Would rather sleep like a log,
For each time he slyly,
Tries to step out,
Lord Bruno quite emphatically,
Barks, “You lout!”

At night is when,
In Bruno’s majestic den,
A primal calling,
Nudges his lordship from slumber,
He starts his incredible yelling,
Rending precious sleep asunder.

(Photos - His lordship, My Beautiful Granny)

Free Spirit

Free spirit,
Like flowing wine,
Take the shape,
Of this glass of mine.

Roll with your fingers,
A mysterious charm,
To your gypsy eyes,
Do I disarm.

A look of wildness,
In your eyes,
A beast within,
For freedom cries.

A dance untamed,
A song so free,
Cast a magic spell,
That enchains me.

Little Red Kite

Little red kite,
Bobbing up and down,
In the big blue sky.

White clouds,
Dodge birds,
That scatter about.

Red kite,
Pulls hard,
At the little boy.

Look,
There goes the little boy,
To the sky.

(Photo - With my school friend Pratik in a roadside restaurant in Singapore.
By the way, if you have a taste for short stories, try http://prawncurry.blogspot.com)

In the café

There isn’t much to say. The voices in the café are distant and incoherent and the music too low. But then the silence is just as annoying to my ears as loud noise can be. Which is why I speak. They are fillers, more like bubbles in the air, which the cartoonist forgot to type words in. But that will do for now.

Her gaze isn’t very reassuring. It is an entreaty and a question. It speaks louder than the bubbles I draw in the air. It makes the sound of a ticking clock waiting to strike the hour. Everytime I look away the clock doesn’t move. It waits for me. And each time I look at it, it starts ticking again.

Even the coffee smells of something else. Somebody has put too much anxiety in it along with sugar. I try to drink it with apathy, but it grips my throat and forces me to consider this and that. I smile at her and pretend that nothing is wrong. And she smiles back at me pretending nothing is wrong.

There isn’t much to say anymore. But there is a little hope. That she will walk out of this café and find herself waiting outside for her. That she will smile back at me through the glass door and perhaps forgive me.

Photo: Vijay at a Starbucks in Palo Alto

Hypocrisy

Non-conformism has been my mantra for sometime now. When it comes to tradition or convention I always ask why. Social mores and customs lie neglected under a pile of clothes in my wardrobe. What society thinks of me, doesn’t really bother me. I have always been an outsider anyways, looking at society like one looks at fishes in an aquarium. Every now and then something happens and I plunge into life with a splash and am surrounded by it, but that is so rare. Those rare instances are very memorable, but that’s not what I am talking about.

I am talking about hypocrisy. Of how I pretend to be just what I am not. How non-conformism fades away every time life comes calling. It is there somewhere inside me, in some part of my body. Its physical form is not known, and its chemical composition is ambiguous. It was passed on to me when I was born – like a birth defect. A part of it came from my father and the rest from my mother. And now it is a part of my identity. It is the way I look, I think, I act even though I seldom betray it to the world.

It is my deep love for tradition. For that old house where my grandmother lives. My love of that smell from the kitchen when my mother cooks. It is my respect for my grandfather’s principles and my father’s sense of dignity. It is the memory of that winding staircase that leads to a place called home. It is my love for my mother and all her beliefs and superstitions. It is the smell of incense sticks and earthen pots. It is the sound of dhak (drums) and conch shells. It is my love of art and poetry. It is my love of values. It is my deep-seated respect for tradition and convention.

Photos - The Udaipur Lake Palace

Blue Eyes

Wish I had blue eyes. Beautiful blue eyes. Cobalt blue eyes. Blue eyes that look like the ocean. Where waves of emotion would wash against the shore, splash themselves on distant rocks and become droplets and mist. Blue eyes as blue as the sky spread over high mountain peaks that tower over clouds. Proud blue eyes so happy in their blueness.

Wish I had such blue eyes, that you would love me for them. That you would look into my eyes and lose yourself in them. That you would ask no questions. Blue eyes that would enchant you mesmerize you. Blue eyes that you would never forget. That you would dream about. That you would think about all day, so far away and miss my blue eyes. That you would long for them. Blue eyes that you would see each time you close your eyes.

Wish I had blue eyes that would say all that I have to say. That you would look into them and know just what I mean. Blue eyes that say so much more than words. Blue eyes like a thousand pictures. Blue eyes as sweet as music. Like the song of birds at dawn. Blue eyes like rain drops. Blue eyes so blue that they would shimmer from a distance. That you would see them from far away and come running into my arms.