Melancholia

Who let the wind out of your sails?

Why is the fire dying in your eyes?

I thought you would explore the unknown

Jump off planes

Live off the land

Be an aberration

But you're still alive

Why don't you move?

You're not a tree. 

Knots

The mane reflects

a state of mind

Yesterday 

it flew wild in the wind

unmindful of its fate

Today it is tangled

persistently fierce
decidedly without hope

Tomorrow

threatens to tame it
into a plait of constriction

This mane longs for the wind again.

Tu Me Manques

A head unclouded, to think on my feet
A gaze surrounded, enveloping all it sees
A heart resigned, to grieve its own passions
A faith unbridled, by doubt or greed
A thought jumbled, but content to be unsettled
A strength confounded, in its desire to be unnecessary
A curiosity ignited, with the right kind of hard questions
A smile unpoised, stripped of gratuitous pretense
A love unaccustomed, jubilant with the unknown
A hunch embedded, begging to be true

Is everything that is missing from me.

In French, you don't say "I miss you." You say "tu me manques," which is closer to "You are missing from me."

Haze

I am all wrapped up within myself

Too worried about injustices done

The luxuries not afforded to me

Selfish in my quest for a greater purpose

You see the world inside you

You see it detached from you
The momentous outward questions

Find answers within you

Will we ever discover the Utopia we seek?

I'm afraid if I find mine

It will not be the rapture I imagine it is

If you find yours

It will be the next Renaissance.

The Cigarette

The poison that dictates my need
Has you in its grips

You consume me
With an increasing urgency
So the vicious cycle continues

I ignite dark desires
Fuel sleepy delusions
You ravage me every time
But I leave you empty
Yet entwined
Like death's bear hug

You ingenue!
Most times the victims
Mean nothing to the killer
You could be the father
Or the lover
Or the bystander on the street corner
In the end all you are
Is just a statistic
On a tall pile of red tape
That will soon crumble to dust.

I wish you could have me
Along with the ability to climb mountains
Without losing your breath
You can't
You are only a prisoner.
This is at best,
A one night stand
Stretched too far.

Untold Stories

Of existential dilemmas

The mysteries of the universe

The fanaticism of religion

The magic of wayfaring

The misogyny of both genders

The joy of gastronomy

The thoughts are piled up high

But don't seem to want to be realised
Sometimes one mistakes a firefly for a spark

Maybe it burns somewhere else, 

Outside of oneself.

Or maybe it needs to be rid of the ennui
That sacrosanct conformity,
The pitiful need to blend in
So it can fly in the wind
And bluster and rage
To become the roaring fire
That is its glorious fate.

One holds so many tales within.
Nurse that spark
Stoke the blaze
Invoke the inferno.

Glimpses

You read me and then ask about it.

I give you the source and the tale

You have a quiet confidence

Do you know something about this that I don't?

Am I just too daft to grasp your true depth?

So I try and I can't get through

This is a two way street 

With a huge "Work In Progress" sign on your side of the lane

Can we take a breath and finish construction?

And decide that I will read some and you will too.

Or better yet, let's do it little by little 

Then suddenly all at once.

To Be A Nomad

It is over. I am back now, physically at least.

I had never been to the mountains before, or even seen snow. People had told me of the allure of the snow caps. I had wanted to see it for myself. There was just one other person in the group I was acquainted with when we started. It was quite ideal. I had decided to hug my solitude close and commune with nature. I foresaw being witness to delightful sights and sounds, chatting with locals about their way of life, sampling their food and being blissfully exhausted before I went to sleep every night. I looked forward to seeing the most physically revolting version of myself considering we wouldn’t be bathing for more than a week. I wanted to find out as I did the daily gradual ascent and occasional descent, whether I would lose my temperament or take it in my stride. I got all my answers and then some. 
The trek really started when we left base camp at Loharjung in the wee hours. The uphill climb was a mood tester. It was arduous but we made it. There were some cheery faces and some sullen ones towards the end. But everyone brightened up at the sight of the plum coloured nectar we were offered when we reached what would be our first stop, Didna village. It was the local Buransh juice, otherwise known as Rhododendron. The acclimatization climb broke the ice between the group. When it was night, the darkness was so absolute, the sky showed its deference with all the stars in all their glory. I was hushed, feeling minuscule and insignificant. The remarkable aspect of being in a place devoid of the invasions of human technology is that every experience, visual or cerebral is accompanied by a dash of authenticity.

So the days went on. We trudged along beautiful vistas of lush forests, sparkling streams, endless meadows. Our trek leader, Sanjeev was one of a kind, always cheerful with a song on his lips. He belonged to the mountains, his grace and poise in any situation was an inspiration. We passed Ali Bugyal, Ghora Lotani and reached our first camp on snow, Bhagwabasa. Sleeping in a sleeping bag in a tent gave me fitful sleep, but who needs sleep anyway? There are only so many hours in a day, and only so much time to do everything we want. I would beat my alarm clock every morning and be up before 6 am to see the sun rise. I never got used to the breathtaking beauty, it always amazed me. At our snow camp, the unforeseen happened when the Milky Way was pointed out to me. I gaped at the sky for several minutes. The goosebumps were palpable.

Summit day was by far the most physically demanding one. Towards the end, I was running solely on adrenalin. It was difficult. It was exhilarating. I felt alive. Roopkund lake was something of a let down. Because it was frozen, we didn't get to see any skeletons. The summit took us about 4 hours, but the local kitchen staff ran up and caught up with us within thirty minutes with our breakfast! It was like they don't have human blood flowing through their veins. They are  genetically superior beings who glide through snow like they have imaginary skis strapped on. The way down was interesting as the snow had started to melt. One would be knee deep in snow before one knew it. But that was common place by then. No big deal. We reached the camp in high spirits. I felt like I wanted to climb the next mountain, then the next and just keep going.

We descended for the next two days. I missed the snow the moment I left it. I still feel the dull ache I felt then. The way down was beautiful but it was a quiet beauty. It had the sense of an ending. This is precisely why one must travel. Any writer could write a thousand words about a Himalayan hike, but nothing could justifiably encapsulate the magic of being in that moment; not being bothered about recording it on film or on camera, but just being. All through the trek I kept telling myself, "Look up. Watch your step but look where you are. This place is a thing of beauty. You'll be sorry if you miss it. The quality of these mountains is HD."  I went away with one feeling. I will be back.   

Returning home is the most difficult part of long distance hiking. You have grown outside the puzzle and your piece no longer fits. - Cindy Ross

PS: Photos courtesy Deepesh Panicker & Rohit Gupta. Interested souls, check TTH and go be a nomad. 

Oblivion

There is a home away from my home
Where the girl lives
She buries her head in the pillow every night
And dreams of my home
Just like I dream of hers
Her world has no veils
Only joyous hope
Her words are just thoughts
Transcending consciousness
I think to her in my mind
She thinks back to me
We are alive in our myth of each other
This home that is away from my home
Is the other side of the mirror

Sting

The sting lasted a second
But it pervaded my senses
Seeped into my skin
And became me
The colours are suddenly brighter
The smiles are more sudden

The bee flies happily on its way
Wreaking havoc on its trail

Making cliches of perfectly normal mortals

Writer’s Block

A story is told in the breadth of a song

An idea is alleviated of its chaotic thrum

The minds of the desperately lonely

Birth tales of love, confounded and pure

The cadence of the traveller’s wanderlust

Seeks solace in the comfort of home

The squeal of an optimistic laugh

Layers ugly truths of untold horrors

Is she ever who she claims to be?

Or is she constantly unravelling?

Unknown to the world

Or even herself