In this part of the world, we’ve a river to walk by. Ganges is to me what Seine was to Maupassant.
At dawn, when crowd is not, I stand facing it. Steps leading up from the shore disappear under water swelling by the minute. The water-level rises right up to where I wait.
An automobile labouring up hilly terrain
The engine going into overdrive
Lying on a hotel bed, the night deepening
Lying upon stretcher, as if in deep sleep, my aunt was brought down from her third-floor quarantine to hospital basement. The sight hit the heart-strings like a shooting stone from a slingshot.
The muffled echoes
Of the motorized boat
Cruising towards Gandhi-ghat
Had me in its spell
I was on Rajdhani Express, fixated on a book called An Artist of the Floating World, not aware that dinner had already been served, that a co-passenger was trying to attract my attention.
I am a sucker for deliciously scented flowers. If I smell a floral scent drifting in the air, I pause and seek its source. Thus, l came to be acquainted with Mogra (Arabian Jasmine) Honey Suckle (Madhobilata), Tuberose (Nishigandha) and the like. There’s another of its kind I fell in love with during a stay at Aarogya Bhavan in Jasidih, now a part of the state of Jharkhand.
Our journey to Jasidih became uncertain when the morning Toofan Express in which we had reservations was cancelled an hour before its scheduled departure. Our stay for a few days at Aarogya Bhavan was already booked. So, a few hours later, we boarded another train and arrived at Jasidih quite late in the evening.
Crepuscular rays shimmer around the hummock overlooking the hamlet with its encampment of huts.
Trotting along the winding by-lanes with my friends in Varanasi, I suddenly strayed from the group. Strain of a morning raga drove me to a hole in the wall. My eyes misting up, I met an American flautist there.
