Discovering a 19th century French poet, more than 150 years after his passing, must be more than some happenstance. One must find a symbol to mark the significance of this singular event. Where can I find such a symbol? Perhaps in Charles Baudelaire's own forest of symbols. My
Northstar is a collective dream. We all dream about it in our own different way. Some people, and some things too, have permeated our dreams even though they may long be dead. And why do we dream? Because we must, because we can, because we cannot help it. What happens,
Today, we mark Vasant Panchami. Vasant is spring. Although we are in the cold days of January, this day is celebrated in the hope of the arrival of spring 40 days later. We pay homage to Goddess Saraswati, that fount of knowledge and learning. She flows from the locks of
Poetry - Ambushed Picture 1 - Water Lilies in Dark Water Picture 2 - Exposed Roots
I recently put together two short collections of essays on Northstar and Raga. Over the years I have written my thoughts on the these organisations as they developed from an idea. These essays reflect (or betray) my own development (or regression) as a person thinking and building these institutions.
There is a room in my school - Sunrise Hymn. And over a few years, I have written poems on that title. Here are all of them. The image is of the sun as I saw it one early morning in Bori Wildlife Sanctuary at the foothills of Satpura Range.
On a morning one day, not long ago, I went to my terrace to look at the stars before dawn. The sky was ablaze in blue.
We mark this day each year. The Day of the Teachers. Twice a year. Once on Guru Purnima and once again on S. Radhakrishnan's birth anniversary. We 'pay' respects to teachers on the day and then duly disregard them, put them in the their place of
A word game and an image game. A word game of creating portmanteaus of Greek origin words suffixed with phobia. An image game of finding these phobias in imaginary tales. We live our lives in fear or in search of fear. We look for them in other people and in
I am all. And all is me. This street in an ancient town has killed many and saved many. Don't look for order and justice and goodness. Look only for the dim yellow light.
I was travelling to Konya in late winter on a clear morning. The fields on the sides of the road were light brown. And far off on the horizon, a little house, barely visible. Perhaps, the house of the farmer tending to these fields.
I took the image of the semazen (in the cover) during a sublime performance in a caravanserai.