Life, Art & Nature

Dear Reader,

Last week, we made a trip to my hometown, Shimla. For many years, I’d been going there in summers and had quite forgotten what snowfall in the higher ranges of Himachal could do to the capital city. We landed on the third day of non-stop rain and despite all the warnings about the cold, we ventured out in single jackets and windcheaters. The wind was ferocious on the open Ridge ground, blowing away our umbrellas and coats, and even us! With chattering teeth and literally soaked from top to bottom, we rushed to the nearest shop that was selling woollens. Needless to say, we bulk-purchased and ensured the chill stayed away.

The thing about privilege is that you barely notice you have it. It just feels so normal. And then one day, just on another rainy day, you become aware of its presence and that’s when it feels heavy. Not that you give it up after that, but you begin to carry gratitude for it.

Anyway, the sun was out and bright the very next day and although there was a chill in the air, the cold didn’t bite us anymore. So, we went out on a nature trail—just the four of us—on the outskirts of what’s counted as Asia’s third-densest forest. When you walk under trees that feel older and bigger than life itself, something settles in, maybe a subtle realisation about being invisible or melting into the background. The peace, the quiet is addictive and there’s a kind of joy about being ‘ungooglable’… you know what I mean. I know people who are not on planet internet and they really inspire me. But there’s something else that holds me back from going that way.

(It’s ironic. I think writing should have made me elusive, but it’s become the thing that pins me to being searchable and makes untraceability out of reach).

As we walked further, bird calls filled the jungle. I tried looking but couldn’t spot the singers, hidden between the tall deodars, completely invisible. My son suggested the Himalayan coal tit, though it may have been any other bird. But this experience gave me a metaphor for art, one of the best I could have imagined—the maker hidden behind the work; the work itself enough. I think that’s the best gift of art – not wealth, not fame. But this vanishing act. The artist becomes irrelevant. They must. Else, not long before emptiness will engulf them.

Honestly, I’d like to do this vanishing act very much. But later perhaps. For who can escape the plans and the pings for now! So, back to base, I’m here again. Also spotted this beautiful magnolia (clicked from different angles and lenses) on the trail and because philosophy had the better side of me, this little haiku tiptoed alongside.

Before I leave, I would like to share a poem that I read on Poetry Town some days back. It’s called ‘Song from the Third Floor’ by Valentina Knup, one that hasn’t left me ever since, particularly the one line…

I threw a lifetime to be at this window.

Seriously, what’s the point of all this if we’re going to end up right there, at the window? You can read the poem here.

Publication News:

Three of my poems found a home at Muse India. You may read them here.

Some beautiful reviews of Kuhu Learns to Deal With Life by Tomichan Matheikal and Seethalakshmi from Promising Poetry. They can be read here and here.

Here’s a fun video I did in collaboration with The Pen Kids Creative Writing and Scholastic India. Watch it here.

I’m planning on doing NaPoWriMo in April. So, you’ll probably find me more active here… the vanishing act will have to wait!

Until we meet again, may peace be with all.