Somewhere on the Other Side

Somewhere on the other side 

of this cherry hot day,

Storm clouds brew on the walls

turning a cyan green into darkness.

The room slowly turns away

from the moon,

And the army waits

on a butter peach table harness.

Shot on 13.08.2010, 15:40

A lone sentinel of a bulb

hangs guard,

Overlooking a sea of washes

under a yellow polythene june.

The wooden ash tray

and the gingham cushion wait,

I spy on them with my big eye

and dance on the tip of the evening moon.

Shot on 13.08.2010, Between 15:30-45

People play carrom

on a granular sky like board,

laden with powder dust.

They narrow their eyes

and bite nails in anticipation.

They focus and hold their breaths

like they're in another place altogether.

I close my eyes,

and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross

to reach them.

A little chai shop 

sat pretty on the chowk.

A faceless man chopped and picked

the woman was shy to be clicked.

With vodka bottles of vinegar

riding on a black plastic wave,

a hot mutton thukpa is

all I could crave.

Shot on 14.08.2010 , 12:47

Sometimes you can sit in a place and watch the world go by.

Makeshift hippies in inked feet. The hair long and unkempt.

The pahadi girl with oil in her hair and a baby on her back,

waiting for that bus to kullu, standing by the line of cylinders.

A man, sitting and reading, his thoughts moving just like 

his eyes do down a page. 

They could be on the chowk, weaving through hordes 

of sikh riders with saffron flags, making their way to holy manikarn

or they could be on a bridge, crossing torrents of furious waves.

The angry ones have overtaken the favourite spot by the stream

and turned her into a river. 

The virgin sands,

abused.

They walk, this way or that.

the people. 

Sometimes you can sit in a place and watch the world go by.

The pahadi woman in her traditional attire or the old man in a ponytail.

Different yet joined by the same experience and yes 

the cables of the rickety old bridge.

Shot on 15.08.2010, 11:25

or they could be on sand. Flying.

Up and down.

High and low.

Sometimes you can sit in a place and watch the world flutter by.

Shot on 15.08.2010, 13:09

I took a trip to one of the few places where I feel absolutely 

at peace. Not only because I know it like the back of my hand,

but also because every time I go there, it always has so much new to offer.

Kasol / Kasaul, lies in the Parvati Valley, 

you can take a bus from ISBT, Delhi and get off at Bhuntar / Buntur / Bhunter

the next morning.

On the way you pass by hoards of plastic baltis and mugs,

Characteristic of small towns that whizz by from the window of the volvo.

Ungreen. 

Filthy. 

Like the plastic bright fuchsia or the magenta is meant 

to compensate for the dull and the drab town.

From Bhuntar, take a local rickety bus with a tv if you're lucky and travel up 

bumpy roads with a mithun da movie.

People climb in with band baja, sacks of grain, chicken, punctured tyres,

spices, worries, thoughts, or sometimes none of those and just in a hurry

to reach the next village to attend a wedding. 

Life is simple. 

uncomplicated.

Somewhere on the other side of this city called dilli

A room turns away from the moon,

Straight into wet august from a red hot june.