Monsoon clouds cast a deep spell one afternoon in the rainy month of July. . .


I took a day off at the call of the wind that came softly into my room drenched in the fragrance of the Gandharaaj.

Dark clouds covered the sky, they rumbled and thundered and cast a sparkling green spell on the noon.


I decided to stay at home. I curled up in my favorite corner and felt how blessed I am to be alive .



Spring Gypsyies – II




Rustling, crisping, leaves dry

Whispering, singing, humming goodbye.

High-high above the blue-blue sky

Where colorful kites fly

In the waters blue and rippling,

Languorous eagles lazing, swimming,

Afternoon siesta of the early spring.

Fluttering, flapping leaves of Peepal

Sudden gusty flights of pigeons,

Flowers so tender of beanstalk purple

Basking in the sun so gentle.



Sweeping – swooping restlessly

Winds that murmur endlessly –

Tales of lands faraway and happy,

Where life was simple and unadorned,

And every man – beautiful and bold,

Of those lands I dream and wake up and cry,

See there are tears shining in my eyes. . .

  • Chitra



(Note: none of the images are mine. I have borrowed them from pinterest.)




spring gypsies-I: of sun mist, soulful serenades and afternoon siesta


Yes, I can smell it – in the lemony fragrance of the morning air – in the jingle of the lazing wind that is playing with the curtains, in the silk-like softness of the sun that is dozing on my carpet as my curtains play with the wind and the sun – spring has arrived!

(greeting the sun)

I have taken a day off today and it’s already afternoon – quiet and unhurried, and I am hearing inside me and everywhere near and far, the restless song of the warm, lazy, sun-drenched winds of the afternoon. I know them so well. I have known them since my childhood – since those days when we two sisters used to run breathlessly after the wind-swept flowers of bougainvillea that would go rolling, whirling, dancing in the sun in clusters so colourful at my grandma’s house – all that is now but a memory.

Lying on my little cot on my terrace where tender violet flowers are smiling on bean-stalks, I can see a radiant sun-mist in the air, and languorous eagles basking in the sun high above, I can hear the coin-like clatter of crisp, brown leaves flying, spinning, whirling down lazily from the trees, till they are again air-lifted by strong gusts of the wind. Everything, every sound, has drowned in the sound of the afternoon sun. It is the same sound that I heard in the morning inside the veins of the leafless twigs of the silent lemon tree that would soon burst into flowers and fruits – it was the sound of the sun rushing deep inside. Tiny wings of radiant leaves would soon flutter on its leafless twigs and birds would come to weave their little nests again. There’s always a pain, a catch in my breath, something aches inside, when I hear the long passionate soulful ala`ps that spring has been singing since ages unknown. They were still the same years back, when we used to watch the wild Siberian doves cry and swim and prattle as the wind ran across the river – rippling, giggling, glittering.

(Bathing in the sun-shower)

And now, some more news about the spring gypsies:
Not only the noon, the night sky has tales of spring to tell as well – after long weeks of fog and mist, it is clear again – starry, soothing, and fragrant with tender Raat ki Raanis. I got up last night to find a waxing moon climb the budding creeper on my balcony and tiptoe to my window to say good night. Incidentally, I woke up today before the first calls of the little robins, just a little before the daybreak, and saw the morning star sparkling like a gem in the clear air of the spring morning.

So, finally, here is one pic of my diwan on which first rays of the sun love to have their first morning tea – yes, my house is dressing up to greet the gypsy caravans of the spring.

(Guldaories in my garden in the early hours of the morning)

Note: All pics on this blog post were taken today, early in the morning. Wait for my next caravansary post on this season of colours and hope. This post is a part of my season diaries. I hope you had a nice spring siesta here at my caravansary where spring is camping. Do let me know and feel free to drop in your comments, suggestions and opinions. This post would be incomplete without them.

One cold winter morning, I heard the sun knocking at my window


The night had not left my warm bed yet, and the morning sun still lay hidden behind the thick curtain of morning mist. I sat wrapped in my old easy chair, with a rather late cup of morning tea when I heard someone whispering very softly and suddenly – from behind the misty window panes – a golden river of warm morning sun came flooding, rippling, sparking in, lighting the darkness in my room. And the window glass panes suddenly seemed to melt into a golden flame and . . . I smiled!


Autumn Diaries – V: Have you ever heard the evening sun sing autumn songs to the wild grasses?



Have you ever heard the sun play old autumn ditties on the golden strings of its magical guitar? I caught it singing its most tender songs of promise of a new morning to the grasses that stood spellbound – rapt in unspeakable emotion. Drenched by the golden sun shower, the tearful grasses stood – listening with rapt attention to the fading notes as that homeless, carefree vagabond went its solitary way, walking with carefree steps through the singing fields of colourful clouds, above which little black birds hovered in search of last morsels of food. The tender grasses bid farewell to the sun as it walked – far – far – farther away, taking long careless strides  which left golden dust flying behind. The sun has to reach another city where the earth is eagerly waiting for it to come and open the door for the morning light to flood in, to smile upon the sleeping grass fields, and scatter jewels from its backpack that always has loads of gems – red rubies and emerald stones and blue topaz.

1212121212121212121212121212121212This blog post was completely unplanned.I was sitting in an open backyard listening to a discussion when I heard faint notes of an old-old song. Who was playing that? who cares for those long forgotten things? I looked around and saw – wild grass, something  nobody has time to notice and I saw – the last rays of the setting sun. I have always loved this wild tender grass that appears in this part of the year only.  These tender gems hanging on its frail stems look like glowing splinters of sun’s broken glass. Continue reading

Autumn Diaries- IV: October Scenes from Rural India.


I took this photo on my way to a village. I tried to capture this moment in my camera as the bike raced through the darkening rice fields. As I sat cross-legged on the motorcycle with a light back-pack and a light heart, I saw the unending autumn fields bidding goodbye to the setting sun and i loved it. Yes, I love this nomadic life that takes me from big cities of towering skyscrapers to remote villages where life still goes on without electricity, from cities where thousands of human heads rush past me on their daily commute, to lands where mountains, sea waves and tall trees are the only dwellers.

Yes, I have just returned from a trip to some nearby villages. Would you like to know how autumn makes its first impressions on village fields and farmlands? I am posting here  a few pics :

I asked a girl to accompany me to the rice fields in the morning. I loved that meandering narrow village path and the expanse of the dewy green on which the morning sun seemed to have thrown a glowing transparent sheet of gold.


Yes, there – under those trees – in a small village hut, I passed a beautiful starlit night. I woke up in the dead of the night to find a firefly twinkling like a star inside my mosquito net . . . 

While returning from a walk around the fields in the morning, I captured this typical domestic scene of rural India: Continue reading

Autumn Diaries – III: With full moon, Autumn’s first cycle, “Kwaanr”, Begins in India . . .


With sun-splashed glittering mornings and moon-washed sleepless nights, autumn has begun its first beautiful cycle, “Kwaanr”. As I strolled in my garden last night after dinner, I saw my old Harsingar shrub laden with tender white buds. I heard its sun-stemmed white buds opening softly to offer their fragrance to the full moon. I post here a photo from the last year of tender Harsingar flowers that seem to have thick silken threads of sun woven into saffron stems that glow:

i collected these harsingars from my garden in the morningI spent some quiet hours in my garden today in the dew-decked hours of  the morning and took a few photographs: Continue reading