Borrowed voice

The picture of a lone black wolf
at the edge of a rocky cliff
neck stretched, eyes closed,
looking up at a spotless moon,
an image familiar from paintings,
or stories regaled by elder siblings
trying to spook our naive spirits.
But it is an incomplete visual,
for there is no voice, except
the vain attempt of a brother.

Listen to the leafless trees
on a windy winter night
as the rain pecks at your window.

Listen to the painful howl
of the wind, as it tears through
the branches of those sleeping trees.

It doesn't shatter the glass
but you can not drown it out.
It is a ghostly, incessant sound
that will not let you sleep or dream.
But, I know now what they mean
when they say that the "wind howls".

So may be it is the wind,
on a full moon winter's night,
that howls, and not the wolf,
for who has heard the lone black wolf
at the edge of a rocky cliff,
neck stretched, eyes closed,
looking up at a spotless moon?

Black sky

Is it coincidence that when
the evening bleeds pink orange
you look up and twirl a bit
to absorb the ephemeral twilight,
that it's as if the sky has chickenpox,
except you look closely and see
it's not chicken but crows,
of course, then your brain reminds you
that chicken don't fly high, so now
you can confirm your worst fears,
it is after all Halloween,
and hordes of black winged devils
fill every inch of your sight,
they act like they don't know your whereabouts
but oh how clever they are,
for when you're out pretending to be a wily witch,
with the black cone hat and made up kohl eyes,
unaware of the dark souls you have offended
with your innocent mockery and fake broom,
they are watching and they will come after you
leading their masters, witches on brooms,
through the pox and pus-filled horizon.

Of course it may just be that
the annual winter migration of crows
coincides with the day of death,
but the twisted mind condemns them,
mourners in disguise,
waiting for the opportune moment
to swoop down on your head.

Light bait

Like twinkling patterns of light
on a tree on Christmas eve
spreading joy to passersby
as they fly from branch to leaf.

Their mates slow on ground
lead down a winding road
with an equally bright glow
wait for him to get on board.

Babies crawl and clamber
their first steps touch sand
toward the glimmering ocean
this may be their last on land.

Attracting life from earth, sea and sky
She beckons all to the changing tide.



Written on 2nd August, 2009.

Captivating Kachchh

A friend, Sartaj (http://batalaland.blogspot.in/), and I wrote an article on Kachchh for Sanctuary Asia magazine. Kachchh was where I did my dissertation for 4 months on the Indian desert jird.

Here's hoping that you're inspired to visit this unique and absolutely stunning landscape!

(You can view the image in a new tab and zoom in to read or save the image and view to read later)

My Angel

Shadows of rabbits and snakes
Bedtime stories and astronomy
Sharp lines and fuzzy craters
Wrinkles on her silver-white face

Rising like the White Wizard
Glimmering at the peak of life
Piercing the darkness of night
Smothering the land below with light

Gracefully ageing, slowly fading
Every minute, hour and 29 days
Radiance merging with the horizon
Until darkness descends once more

Not for long, however.

Born again in the unchanged avatar
Steadily maturing to Beauty incarnate
With capricious colours and swinging moods
The lady she was always meant to be.

To understand her disappearances
Devoutly persist. Selflessly love.
As she unites with night again
And peacefully sleeps in heaven
Be strong enough to let go
For there will be one more chance.

Winter

She wraps us in ice
Chilling us to our bones
She lets us deeply slumber.

She gives praise to the Sun
And reason for fire
Her reign, she knows, is ephemeral.

She drives the Moon mad
Relaxing bed time rules
Causing space wars with the Sun.

She knows she is ageing
As she passes the baton
To the stronger, harsher youth.

She will snatch the Sun's glory
And carry it to her grave
Where she will lie in wait.

For she will be resurrected
She will rule once more
This time, with added vengeance.

The Ficus and The Finch

Five frenzied feeding flocks on four fruiting Ficus trees on a Friday morning might seem fictitious but is in fact, a fact. Fenced off from further foraging by four-footed furry ferrets, fast-flying feathered fauna feed as if famished. Finding a fresh fruit, Frederick the finch fails to fathom it, following a futile feud with his fat father Felix. Feigning a feeling of faintness, Frederick fools father finch Felix into fetching another fruit. Frequently father finch Felix fulfills favours until another fine Friday when he found a flattering femme fatale finch, Fiona, for Frederick. Fiona was a faithful wife, fussing over Frederick, finding and fetching his favourite fruits. Finally the flourishing Ficus trees put forth a last flush of fruits for the finch family following which Felix, Frederick and Fiona flew off far far away...

And that's where my imagination ran out!