Now that’s a Skyline. Not the towering monuments of greed cluttered around in ugly arrangements, like giant ulcers on a map.



“Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.”


Have seen a bit of rainfall here, and the almost instant sprouting of fresh leaves, tiny shoots and fresh grass which followed is nothing short of magical. Am missing some of the trees of Bangalore, those faithful friends of mine who waved when I saw them, who guarded the roads on both sides, who celebrated each season differently, who towered mightily and yet humbly, and who literally breathed life into me..


Blissful monotony

The trees were still,

like meditating Rishis,

seemingly motionless and lifeless,

but as alive as can be.

We bowed to them.

The trees, in so many shades,

raining leaves as Time expanded,

Its canopies, looking like a carpet on the mountainside,

and a decades-old stubble on the mountain top.

We were rooted in the woods.

Accompanied by a chattering stream,

Pebbles, like Jewels in the clear water,

reflecting the golden light,

the transparent paint of His palette,

a festival of colors painted out now.

We were eroded by the stream.

The clouds raced above,

like floating speech balloons,

Their shadows gave us a pleasant chill,

and ever so often, warmed our hearts.

Our feelings danced with them.

A lake came along,

its ripples communicating in binary,

something hidden but majestic.

As if listening to our queries,

its stillness revealed our thoughts.

We spoke with each other.

A few hundred footsteps on,

a roar met us,

a pretty waterfall tumbled down with force,

and sent the spray skywards.

We were drenched in joy.

Autumn wielded its brush,

the forest was a collage,

the creatures in the forest,

singing like wind chimes.

We were in a painting.

Seasons may be repetitive,

Nature’s sights may get familiar,

Life may be uniform,

the weather may be wearying,

We didn’t miss any monotony.



A symphony in the woods

Machine-gun-fire like chirping of a bird,
  And now, a series of whistles,
Gentle rustling of leaves,
  As the wind hikes the trail,
The stream gurgles along,
  A steady riff in the background,
The sunlight-soft and filtered,
  Clings onto huge suspended spiderwebs,
Which now shine like illuminated musical notes,
  A woodpecker plays the percussion,
As the dry autumn leaves thud down,
  Squirrels chattering loudly as the small branches snap away,
All a part of the welcome symphony playing in the woods.


Daily encounters with someone ageless

One of the warmest people we know,

leaves us every evening.

Reminds us that we live in a painting,

one with colorful skies, clouds, grass, trees and reeds.

As he leaves, the shades drip out of the painting,

the tones fade, the hues ooze out.

He walks endlessly,

from horizon to horizon.

Tired, crouched, with slow footsteps,

as he walks away from us;

He brings hope and joy

to the ones who try to see him.

Somewhere, on the horizon,

he seems to gain energy;

which he again distributes to us all,

and fathers the world.

~ ~ ~ ~

He walked away, sure to come back

He walked away, sure to come back

It finally dawned on us, even though it was a sunset. The setting sun, through a canopy of trees in a wooded area near what we call home, looked like a human figure retreating away from us – walking towards a distant horizon, growing smaller, dimmer and colder as he went along.