"Stuff and Nonsense"

My first trip to Triund was in June 2015 with Imam, Ranak and Dharitri. Neha had to drop out as the trip approached because she had a job interview to attend. Good she dropped out, because she did get the job, and missing the interview would have been cause for regret. That had been a dark time for me. I was just recovering from the Herculean task of saying a firm no to a marriage my entire family had been excited about, and my friends were preparing for. The resulting emptiness was waiting to be filled. Up until then, I associated our Northern states and their famous hill stations with nausea and general loss of appetite, as I experienced on our frequent family trips there. Triund was a game changer. We were on a budget, and travelled, ate and stayed humbly. We took an HRTC bus from Delhi to Dharamshala, and from there another smaller bus to McLeod Ganj. The guy who had arranged accommodation for us, Sanjay, had earlier committed to send us a vehicle to ferry us from the McLeod Ganj b...

He'd promised to hold on to her forever, But the frayed clasp finally gave way. The moment of the curtain-fall was painless, Numb. She fell, she flew. Buoyant in the breeze a trifle, And descalating anew. Pirouetting on her helm, She traced a scar in the waving wind, And softly laid her head on the broken bridge. No longer green. Dead. The yellow caught somewhere on its way to red. A black mouth hovers above her shell And with the softest click, swallows her soul whole Immortalized by the silent lens. Forever. 

There's a fort I've visited twice. It's a large pleasant one. Unlike the Ferozeshah Kotla and Tughlaqabad fort, it's not deserted, housing only sad poverty. It is not like the Red Fort either: teeming with politics and commerce. People don't come to this one to click pictures of themselves and the ruins. It is a 'ruins' alright, but a living breathing one.  The weather here is always pleasant; it is never sunny but always bright enough; it's like the beginning of a storm, but without the dust whirls. It's always like a spring morning - or spring evening, spring evening would suit better, yes. It is like that even at noon, even at night.  The fort is built in mud red and blood brown colours. There are huge mounds of mud that one has to climb up and jostle down in order to get through the gateways, such that you could touch the centre of the arch when you're at the top of the mound. The fort is a large place, maybe not as much as the Tughlaqabad fo...

My cousin Runs down the lane, A rupee in her hand, To the little shop round the corner. Her mother, next to me, exclaims, "Look how she runs!" Funny, I think with a grin "Like a penguin," for my aunt I say.  The penguin sent with a rupee in hand To buy ten rolled killers for her father  And slow poison for herself From the little shop round the corner. 

She rustled her skirts and asked of him mockingly, trying and failing to muster anger, "Why? So soon? Cut short your vacation, have you?" Winter smiled warmly, touching her with a cool breeze. She melted, and her pain of separation from him fell off her eyes as raindrops. The world thundered, lightning whips fell on them, but their embrace was not one to be broken soon.

 Up there, On the yellow bend of the parapet, With my love will I sit, Legs dangling down against the wall. Red wine in crystal glass And a red meat delicacy to devour Laughing and talking, occasionally Looking up, to smile at the bright moon. Up there,  Watching With my love I will sit.  Every balcony box Laying bare Its domestic thoroughfare. We'll watch from up there - Unwatched. Up there, My glass through my fingers slips! Falling beautifully, measures a height Of eight floors, dying with a muffled tinkle.  "Careful! Lest ye fall" Crack your frame and let the soul slip. "Careful! Lest I lose, To a fall from up here."

"We saw you smiling at a fruit," they said. "It was a musk melon," I smiled again. Just a sniff told me which one to choose: The one with the draining Delhi heat And the beloved, low-rumbling, Water-spitting desert cooler wind; The one with stolen mangoes And long holidays spent all indoors; The one with cycled-down lanes Of yellow golden-shower trees And memories Cascading From that one, closed-eyed whiff Of the just-right Musk melon.