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

It was the month of July. We could see the waves of the sea, bobbing up and down, washing the deserted seashore. The same stars that used to light up my life on the terrace so many years back, when I used to spend nights devoid of electricity but rich in enjoyment, flickered above the dark waterbody, like a canopy of lights. The bare minimum that I could be sure of in my life, despite all the tumult, was their reassuring presence. On the shore, the lights from the houses were burning, glimmering in the distance like fireflies. The lighthouse was making its periodic revolutions, the beacon shining out towards the sea, where I could see the dark hulls of ships, far away in the distance, their lights gleaming under the evening sky. A gusty, moist wind was blowing, carrying the saline smell of the sea towards us, wetting us with the moisture, and depositing specks of sand on our bodies. All this, while enjoyable at other times, meant nothing to us today. We had come here to spend an ev...

Great cities are made by great people. Delhi and Mumbai/Bombay are supposedly two of our most prominent cities. In the course of one week, I had the chance to visit both these cities. Having lived in Delhi for nearly four years and now living at Pune, in close proximity to its bigger cousin, Mumbai, I have had a chance to study both these places to some detail. A few years back, the Outlook magazine had carried an article on how the denizens of these two metropolises supposedly hated each other, and how the rest of India hated both. Partially true, yes, but with the persistent movement of people across these two metropolises (despite the protestations of the Shiv Sena and MNS), the lines have become somewhat blurred. But certain characteristics, however clichéd, remain. Humming on a Shivneri Volvo, in great mood since it was a Sunday, I reached Mumbai to witness the Kala Ghoda festival. I had been there just a week back for some work, and here I was, back to the metropolis...

To speak, or not to speak, That is the question; Whether ‘tis better to suffer fools and their babble, Or to use the acid tongue and end them all. Whither is the right way- Tact or forthrightness, Mindless snides and chatter, Or opinions that mean what they say? I much prefer the latter; But then, I do so at my own risk. To speak, perchance to scream, Ay, that’s the rub, For, at the height of screams, What solitude may come, When we have shrugged off this mental toil. - Jan, 2012 (Thanks, William Shakespeare, and my apologies for twisting your words)

I have grown accustomed To this vacant space, Empty roads are back again, The sound of silence Drowns out the din of traffic. My room is the abode For all tenses- past, present and future. Empty space on the wall, The clock had stopped ticking. Every morning I fly to distant lands; Redemption from the tyranny Of the present. - December, 2012

(on board a Shivneri Volvo, from Pune to Bombay) This morning, As I sit on the bus, The road leads me on Through the undulating hills; I have seen them lush green, In the flush of monsoons, But now they are grey, With specks of green. At times I think- Are we like this; From green to grey, And back to green? Ecstasy at times, Weariness at others, Taking their place at the driver’s seat? The bus gives a jolt, Then lurches forward, There are people around me, But it’s a lonely road. Our worries are our inheritance, But our journeys our own, We live to love, But die for living. The distant houses Come and go; Home is a place I have struggled to find. Love is a metaphor, Life is a maze, Where is the harbour That anchors the mind? The bus enters A dark tunnel- Light at the end; Is that how our lives Must necessarily be? Drudgery tolerated To find delight, Ages of melancholy For a minute of ecst...