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

I finally left Pune last week. What a journey it has been since the last two years, when I landed here in 2010 with my family, including my small kid, in tow. Coming from Delhi, Pune seemed like a peaceful, laidback and decent place. Since then, life has moved a full circle and this city has seen me mature to a more worldly-wise, hopefully accomplished individual. What should I pick from my memories? Monsoon drives to Lavasa? Ganesh Chaturthi   festival? Long drives on the Bombay highway ? The Kala Ghoda festival in neighbouring Bombay? My beloved book club and our multifarious activities such as the wine-tasting festival, Shakespearean plays and trips to Panchgani? Full moon nights on the hills around Hinjewadi ? Climbing up the Sinhagad fort? The Karla & Bhaja caves?   Or the majestic hills around Pune and the memories associated with them which will remain in my mind forever? On the professional front, I have memories of ABMH, AFMC, teaching at Sancheti, NABH audi

Thoughts…..they roam about, Bouncing off from the walls Of this room Which houses my hopes, fears and tears. Alphabets turn to words, Thence to sentences, Then on to paragraphs; Like a rapidly lengthening cavalcade Of emotions. A long-lost tune Appears back on the canvas of the mind, Wriggles into words, Occupies the paper And comes out as verse.

Four walls, Empty, vacant  echoes.                                                                                                      Dull sound of the oven Cooking its solitary meal. Emptiness and disharmony Are but step-sisters, One out-doing the other, And following the other. Just across the walls, The wind blows cold, Enters my room, Rustles across the bed, Brushes across my skin And numbs my heart. Throughout the night it haunts me- The fantastic vision of the phantom Across the window-pane. He comes and goes; An echo from the past. Like an old friend, I see him sprawled across the glass. He makes frantic gestures Before he finally dies. It is common knowledge That all must go Passing from life to evermore. Hardened minds, Dull, aching disharmony; Cantankerous rhapsody Of long-lost tunes. Years have passed, Dreams have faded, As life became jaded. Do I still live? I do not know

The clock strikes eight; Ready-time, Eating bathing dressing running time. Rush hour, Driving talking breathing cussing hour. Days go by, The silent spite of distressed souls; Madness punctuated by Moments of sanity. Fires inside the heart and outside, And the endless screams From silent minds. Verse is my anaesthetic That somehow dulls the pain.

Dark skies, drizzling rain, The stillness of the morning. The rainswept greens Laugh at the grey skies. One depicts hope; the other, despair. It was not so long back That I had opened my bags and my mind In search of some solace; It was not so long back That I had to lock them once again. Rainswept days are  comforting; They bring back blissful memories Of  careless days When life meant more than rituals That have to be performed. Memories  work both ways; They heal  you inside, But at the same time, Sear the mind Which is still in search of that elusive dream. The river beside my house is full, The banks overflowing; I have seen this river in a dry summer spate, Just like our lives Switching  between loss and redemption. There are monsoon  journeys that are made; Fantastic  hopes, lofty dreams, Journeys of life are often in the mind, That elate you And leave you longing for more. The rain has stoppe

Another independence day goes by, with speeches, parades and flag hoisting. School children blurt out patriotic songs, cars (including mine) start sporting tricolours, the new president addresses the nation, the Baba Ramdev fiasco goes on. And for the first time in my life, I get late for a flag-hoisting ceremony. Ironically, in the 65 th year of independence, we see increased violence against North-easterners, violence in Assam and Mumbai, bomb-blasts in Pune, yet another attack on personal liberty by the West Bengal government, another car-rape in Delhi, female foeticides and an overall increase in social, political and domestic violence. Are we really free? Kabiguru Rabindranath Tagore had the following vision for the country: “ Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretch

You stand there, By my side, Across space and time, Helping me to survive This enigma of life. Your touch Is like the caress of the breeze That rejuvenates my body. Your smile Is my strength. I live because You help me to. Like the sun that rises Every morning, Your presence is a reassurance That all is well. The whirlwinds of life May surround us, But I know That peace will be found In this oasis That we have built for ourselves, And that you will be with me Forever.  

The rains have hit Pune, not with a gale yet, but with a drizzle. The weather has become cool, the air is laden with moisture, greenery has multiplied, pools of water have started collecting, and on the hilltops surrounding this city, the clouds have started accumulating, to form that unique monsoon phenomenon. Monsoons bring a lot to the mind. The memory of choked roads in Calcutta. Incessant rains and floods in 1986, when our house became an island in the middle of a sea of water. Rain-soaked journeys to school, including an occasion when the school gates were flooded and we had to wade in with trousers rolled up! Playing football in the rains, in the mud. Listening to Raga Meghamallar on the old LP Record player at home .Further on, torrential rains in my college days, at Mangalore. Impromptu rain dances on the hostel roof. Getting wet on my bike. Rain-swept sea beaches. Further on, monsoon romances. And the not so enjoyable aspects like getting drenched from head to toe

I have been following the Rajat Gupta trial rather closely, over the past few days. What shocked me was not the fact that a widely respected business head was convicted of insider trading, but the fact that a person who had everything going for him, and had everything he could ask for, chose to chuck it all up, in return for dubious  business benefits . I mean, this gentleman had everything he could ask for. An IIT – Harvard education, the NRI dream, managing partnership of McKinsey (the first non- American born to be so), a financially secure life that many people in the US and India would die for.  He was on the UN advisory panel, and connected to the powers- that-be. Then, why this greed? Two key words in the newspaper report gave it away. Envy. Greed. He was envious of younger people earning more than him , during his stint on the Goldman Sachs board, and in the words of Raj Rajaratnam, his associate in crime ( who was similarly convicted  last year), he “ wanted

The cool wind blows, The white globe lights up The night-sky. The distant hills are silent; Lights on the hill-tops. The air is quiet With expectation. Moonlight shines through The silhouettes of trees. On nights such as these, I would lie on the terrace And just be; Was that really so long ago? The dark outlines of the hills Carve out the horizon In shades of black and grey. The wind that caresses my hair Touches me deep inside, And also heals. I feel at peace With myself and this world. Amongst these dark distant hills, Punctuated by specks of sky- light , And bathed in the moonlight, I find myself Once again.

Last night was a full-moon night.  The full moon means many things to different people. It is presumed to bring on the poetic spirit in some, cause insanity in others, and instigate both in still others. Some believe it can herald vampires and werewolves. One of Bengal’s most distinguished poets, Kabi Sukanta, compared the full moon to a “full-cooked roti”, symbolizing the state of hunger and deprivation that the State was going through, in the pre-independence era.  The poet , P.B.Shelley, had depicted it as a picture of solitude, “Wandering companionless, among the stars that have a different birth”. Well, to each person his own depiction. It is beyond 11 pm, and having had dinner, accompanied by some excellent Chardonnay wine, with a few friends, it seems like the ideal night to take a ride on my bike. The weather seems ideal, and though it is quite late, the comforting fact of a leave on the coming day makes me stick to my plan. The city streets look different, s