Rain

Rain,
In hollow roads, whistling away
A slow tune
Water drips down window panes
Alone
I know what it is
A word, like a raindrop
Washing off colours
And the painting flows colours
Rain
Undoing smoke, untying knots
Farewell friend
In your loneliness
I find comfort
Repeat
Your mistakes, mine too
And we grin foolishly
Awkward, embarrassed
We walk out
Rain
Its still there, in a corner
Like a face glimpsed in time
Like a dream
On the threshold of waking
La Giaconda just smiled
I’ll see you around.
- Bibek Bhattacharya

Canupus

Shoot me down two stars
One red, the other flashing colours in the night
Get them down to the hill I am on
To light up Shayri’s face
Her lips are a red no wine can match
Her scent goes to my head like a true shaft
Her body against mine glisteningly slides
My hand lost in her hair
Or cradling her fawn breasts
I breathe on her nipples, rest my lips on one
A little pressure, her eyes close
And her mouth closes as she sighs
A veil of night
Her eyelashes gently part to let the sunshine out

Hands like blue velvet on my back
Her mouth on my shoulder, white teeth glisten n the dark
A wincing pain warms me and I press her to me
Those eyes wide with mischief

She is the Queen of Sheba
When my face travels the smooth expanse of her taut belly
Tantalising fingers
She pulls out my peace of mind
And soothes my soul, a serenity
Oh, to revel in her being
To sing her song from this mountaintop
The moon will blush and hide her face
To see the stars dance in Shayri’s eyes

Our dance goes on in this embrace
She gives me the life to celebrate
This is her night, the night of velvet touches

So shoot me two stars
One red, the other flashing colours in the night
For her eyes to adorn.

Bibek Bhattacharya

Landour Part III

There's something weirdly endearing about rain in the hills. For one, it isn't as boring as in the plains. The clouds creep up slowly and ultimately engulf you. They caress the skin with a cool softness that just cannot be compared to anything. You know that its going to rain when you can't see two feet ahead of you. The ghostly whiteness closes around you till you feel as if you are walking through water. And then, without warning, it starts pouring, and if you're walking alone on a mountain road, then it seems as if you're adrift in a vaccuum with just the sound of the driving rain splashing on the rocks for company. You cover up the best you can and plod along, looking for a rocky overhang to take shelter under. As the cloud passes by, it thins and bits of vastness start peeking at you. A glimse of a valley here, a hilltop cottage there. At last it clears and you look around. It seems as if the mountains are steaming, the way they trail wisps of clouds.
This is exactly what happenned to us countless times in our jaunts...the heaviest being during a lonely walk doen the aptly named Camel's Back Road which bypasses Mussoorie town and out to Tehri Garhwal proper. And yes, we did find the rocky overhang. Strangely enough, I occupied myself during this cloudburst telling my friend the story of Oedipus. Don't ask. Stumbled upon a smoky old cemetery established in 1829 by vacationing Brits. The neighbour to this sight out of an Edgar Allen Poe story was a tea stall boasting pictures of India's very own vacationing stars. Like any other Garhwali, the nice men manning the stall offered us hot cups of sweet tea to help with the rain induced chills. They were hilariously discussing the pains of directing demanding, scowling tourists to this or that hillside temple. The question seemed to be, if it was a Shiv temple and also a Parvati temple and also a Hanuman temple, then what should it be known for? At least Gurdwaras are easy. Carried about like this. Braved the horrors of the Mall-rain and clouds seemed to have dampened the spirits of the Mallers not one bit- and searched for the Mussoorie Freemason lodge. Situated just above the Picture Palace bus stand, it's barred Gothic gates looked mysterious enough. Wondered if there was an initiatin in progress. Took up Ruskin Bond's casual invitation and forced ourselves on the old man. Was rewarded with great conversation- mostly about the art of writing essays and thoughts on his forthcoming memoirs. Frankly, I've never read much by him, but I was still awed. He's one of the greats after all. Wonder if he's a Freemason. Maybe not. His room is the cosiest little thing I've seen. Facing the Southeast on the road to Lal Tibba and painted a soothing burnt yellow to catch the morning sunlight, it consists of his writing desk- where he writes by hand- a schoolboy bunk with old trunks underneath and the odd potted plant. Full of pictures and cuttings, can't think of a better room for writing. His living room is full of books- mostly eminent Victorians. Found out that he's a great fan of Somerset Maugham. Not surprised then, when he called himself an essayist. He also confided that all his ghost stories were made up. Has a schoolboy's handwriting. I felt honoured to go through some of the rough drafts of his memoirs. The bit I read is about all the female nurses that he has ever encountered. Some were apparently blindingly beautiful. There's something about him which reminds me strongly of Gerald Durrell.
The long hike back from his place in the night, through the sepia tinted lights- because of the heavy fog- of Landour and Mussoorie and then to the eerie desolation of the road to our hotel has to be one of the highpoints. Could've dreamt up a hundred ghost stories just by walking by the ancient rockfaces and twisted trees with strange shapes. The night was a glimmer of ghostly grey and the hills seemed to be hiding a dozen phantoms behind every rock.

Landour Part II

And so...
Landour was just the tip of the iceberg. Walked up, leaving the town and all its attendant horrors far behind. After a few steep twists in the road, past the Tehri highway...a veritable fairy land of sal and pine forests!! Didn't know that I was approaching Lal Tibba- the highest point in the Mussoorie hills and also the houses of the who's who. Absolute peace and quiet, not a soul in sight, apart from the occassional Tavera bearing disgruntled looking tourists to Lal Tibba. And the bungalows! The location makes you jealous and the isolation makes you sigh. Now we really were in the hills, with just forests all around and the occassional century-old church hiding behind a canopy of pine trees. The only sound to disturb the peace would be that of a dog barking with the sheer joy of existance somewhere among the trees. Almost the entire area is private property- the various estates, the army, Doordarshan, etc. However, this also ensures a sense of splendid isolation. At every other turn, you come face to face with an unexpected bit of stray cloud. You stop, bow in greeting and let him glide over you witht a cold shiver. Believe me, ghosts have nothing on them. Lal Tibba itself is nothing in itself. Just an ugly observatory with "really powerful binoculars" mounted on top to view the greater Himalayas. Dunno why anybody would spend 25 bucks to peer into them when the entire area is under a white blanket. But one should never underestimate the stupidity of tourists. Us hikers actually got pitying looks from fat Delhi and Punjabi burghers in their Opel Astras as they made their disgruntled way up the slopes. The state govt could do much worse than banning the use of cars on these roads but I guess that'll never happen.
The actual highest point belongs to a beautiful early-19th century estate called Childer's Estate. Built by some homesick Scot in 1829, this beautiful retreat and its farmsteads belong to the Nahata family. Its called something suitably dumb now.
Made our way down to the horror of the Mussoorie Mall and to the Cambridge Book Depot, where Ruskin Bond was making his weekend visit to sign autographs for smitten kids, their proud parents and assorted Delhi socialites with fake American accents going "Oh Mr Bond, I adooooore your works. I read all your stories in my school books." And then they would proceed to get photographed with him en masse. There was even a proud parent who gave him an Enid Blyton book to sign wi\hich he signed, "With Best Wishes, Enid." Not that anybody noticed, in the frenzy. My friend was realising a lifelong ambition to meet him and spent a long time chatting with him. He sounded rueful enough about the sights and sounds of the Mall, and encouraged us to take walks outside the town and invited us over for tea to his place. Ah, celebrity! Dunno if we'll take it up. Would love to see his cottage though, hidden somewhere among the pines of Landour Cantonment.

Landour

Here's something for all you Musoorie nay-sayers. Though much of the mall is admittedly fucked up by Punjabi families in their Opel Astras and their bawling kids whom you want to murder- not to mention the Barista!!!- there are some really nice places if you only look. Right now I'm in a part of old Musoorie called Landour bazaar. Anyone who ever comes to this town, please visit. Nice walks, local people (!) and clouds surprising you at road corners. You could also try climbing to Gun Hill-and not taking the touristy cable car. Though once you do get to Gun Hill you'll only find wheedling shopkeepers and loud tourists....but the climb is worth it. Anyways, let me see some more, and I'll let you know.