The moving finger writes.............

Shimmering through the darkness, And many shades of gray, A beam of light , glowing softly Connects the coming day. It’s the end of an age, At last the year is through, Madness, sadness, ecstasy, Feelings in shades of crimson and blue. Vacant space on the wall, The clock had stopped its ticking sound. Footsteps, do I hear them now? I walk about and look around. My room is a kaleidoscope of events, In the present, future and all that’s been. I escape in the deep of night To distant lands I have never seen. Soon, early light will wash the windows In the shades and hues of a crimson dawn, Happy New Year, to all of us In the colours of a brave new morn.

Another year is about to start. For some, probably a fresh new beginning; for some, the continuation of an old story; for others, a perfectly legitimate excuse to let their hairs down! Whatever the story , the music is going to come blaring on, the DJs are going to line up their numbers, the parties are going to begin, the wine is going to flow, and all are going to enjoy- the pediatric ( child),geriatric (old),) and psychiatric ( wacko) populace included. I remember the year we had spent New Year’s Eve dancing around the bonfire, non-alcohol induced, with family friends, at a forest in Jhargram, West Bengal, where probably the only lights today during New Year’s Eve would be that from the Maoist lanterns. It was perfectly safe and normal to spend holidays there in those parts during those days, just as it is unsafe today. I had told my wife (then-fiancée) that I would have rather spent the night in the company of “ spirits”, and had got an earful on the virtues of not drinking. Today,

It’s the yuletide season once again. The time of the year when a new year is just around the corner, and people are busy in festivities. It makes one think about the cycle of life, which in many ways, is like the cycle of time- happy times, good times, sad times all following up on the other. I remember, long back we had a Christmas Tree (Aurocaria) in the backyard of our house. It was pretty much an out-of –the way thing to have at our locality in Calcutta those days (more than 20 years back). At Christmas, I would dutifully deck up the tree (even though celebrating Christmas among non-Christian families was not really the “in” thing in those days-the trend was just catching on). Santa wasn’t really that familiar to us then- I imbibed a bit because of my missionary school background. The tree became quite a bit of bonding for me, and in a fit of schoolboy imagination, I even wrote a story linking it to the course of my life! The years passed, and sadly one day, the tree came crash

(June ,2011) “ Gad aalaa, pan singh gilaa (We captured the fort but lost the lion) “ , so goes popular Marathi folklore, referring to the Marathi warrior Tanaji Malusare, who lost his life in regaining the fort of Sinhagad from the Mughals, in the Battle of Sinhagad of 1670. This fort has an important place in Maratha and Indian history- for it was here that Mughal power was crushed by the inimitable warrior and Maratha supremo, Chhatrapati Shivaji. It was a rain-soaked day, and I, along with my friend Ajay, decided to make the most of by trekking up to this historic fort, located some 30 km from Pune. The drizzle had increased to a tempo, and clouds loomed heavy over the sky by the time we reached Sinhagad Road, the arterial connector to the fort. Established some two thousand years back, Sinhagad Fort was an important base for the Maratha warriors, being located at a height of 1350 metres above sea level, and situated strategically at the center of a string of other

(September, 2009) Ramzan is a festival to watch out for in Old Delhi. It is during this one month of fasting that the Old City comes alive in colours , celebrating faith . From Ballimaran to Matia Mahal to Jama Masjid, the streets are a riot of lights and colours. All kinds of food line the shops on both sides of the road, the air smells of semai, fried chicken and attar. I started off from Urdu Bazar, in front of Jama Masjid. Heaps of chicken were stacked in the shops on the roadside, kebab were being roasted on skewers, heaps of semai were being sold. The Jama Masjid was lit up brightly. And the usually chaotic streets were even more chaotic, with people, rickshaws and cars fighting for the same space. I took a street on the left and entered Matia Mahal. It houses the eatery, Karims, an institution by itself. But there are umpteen other hotels, some looking decent enough, others decidedly shabby. The entire street is lighted with bright lights and festoons. It is just after If

(July 2009, Delhi) All cities have a character of their own. Cities such as Delhi, which have a particularly rich history, have an inner core- an inner soul that defines the character of the city as it was meant to be. Delhi is today singularly marked by indifference of its citizens towards the city. As a columnist recently wrote, we drive past millennia of history without even bothering to look around. Indeed, it is difficult to rouse the kind of passion in the average Delhiwallah about his or her city compared to a Mumbaikar or Kolkatan. There are reasons for this , the most important being that in most of the urban sprawl that is Delhi/ NCR today, the is the lack of an inner soul that binds.”The city of migrants” seems to drift like a migrant at time, defying comprehension for the drift, for it is here, among the ramparts and monuments that dot the city, that the millennia of history that shaped India as we know it today, are hidden,. It has been nearly a 1000 years s