Seven Days

It was exactly a week ago she and I set off on our trip. Giggling, talking, enjoying the sheer fun of being a pair of girls on a holiday.
Today, on the seventh day, we’re back on the train.
Dishevelled. Tired. Happy.
Some issues sorted, some to be worked on.
We know each other better.
We know ourselves better.

Sharing rooms, a blanket, view, music… We travelled through the mountains, both on a journey.
Sometimes we headed in the same direction , sometimes we didn’t.
But I could tell when she wanted peace and when she needed a joke.
She saw my need for quiet and took care of people.
I walked, she stayed to chat.
We caught the sunrise in silence and tended to the fire together…
We did our thing and always met midway, usually over a plate of maggi!

Claustrophobia

Tall building replace towering mountains,
There are more people than trees
Chirping has given way to honking…
Chaos returns with a vengeance
The stench, the crowd, the claustrophobia…

The hills feel so distant,
Moments turn to memories
In a concrete world
I search for nature
As it becomes increasingly difficult to breathe…

I shake myself,
Remember those days so beautiful
More so, in contrast
This is real and that was too…

Sunrise

Black, with a thousand stars
Slowly they disappeared
The birds started to coo
Dogs barked
The dawn was breaking…

My heart fluttered like the birds that flew
Each doing it’s own dance

The clouds and early hues were a renaissance painting
Drama galore played in the canvas
The mountains bathed in a soft glow
Some places it was pink,
In some, a soft yellow.

The sun, finally rose,
Rays making their way
The ball of fire claims its place
And there was light…

The start of a new day.

Train tales

I feel every mile
See the topography change
Feel the rhythm in my bones
Sometimes I eavesdrop on conversation around
Or sink deeper into my own music
With headphones that play only from one ear

Lajjavastra

We all need a cloak. Sometimes to protect, sometimes to hide.
Chunni to hijab, fabric wraps itself around, concealing…
Even temples close doors and idols are clothed…

Then why shouldn’t Himalayan peaks pull a veil?
The range, at sun down, summons clouds
Eyes can’t tell the summit from the sky…
Night spills itself , driving twilight away,
Not caring for my disappoint or sorrow,
…but there is a promise of deedaar at sunrise tomorrow

Mukteshwar

A little road took us, thru a pine forest to a little place called Mukteshwar. Rising high over the rambling hills of Almora, Mukteshwar turned to look at the snow clad Himalayan ranges. Nanda Devi stood there, sometimes hiding under a cloud cover, icy, majestic, awe-inspiring.

A small temple brought crowds to the place. Bells are hung, hankies, plastic, hope tied to trees. Stoned sadhus reading dubious prayers. Faithful bowing, praying, wishing. Mostly they make noise.
Some meditate, some take care of things.
Take pictures.
Sit quietly.
Is it a Bombay thing, to find silence in a cackle?

Almora

Stone temple
Brick halls
Islamic window arches
Modified brackets.
Erotic carvings, ignored by many
Fascinating gargoyles,
Wooden balcony-shikhara,
Loudspeaker within…

Across a narrow street I see,
A house with gothic windows
And a sloping roof.

Sunday market bustles,
Steep stairs are climbed and descended
Muslim houses painted bright green,
Chikh on tiny windows…
That yellow house proclaims no religion…

The view belongs to everyone
The sky is free.