Travelling, clicking, writing, and breathing.
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As someone said, "It feels as if God itself is the gardener here." at Valley of Flowers National Park
A chai break on the road.
Because Joshimath is incredible and I just can't stop admiring its beautiful views! ❤️ at Joshimath, Uttrakhand
I sat by the confluence in Karnaprayag, and watched the waters of Alaknanda and Pindar mixing with each other, and then they became one, you couldn't have recognised which water belonged to which river.
And so I looked at the mountains, remembering the ones back in Himachal, and I wondered if I exchanged a few of these with the ones in Himachal, would I be able to distinguish between them?
So there was the answer sitting right in front of me, about how Uttarakhand is my birthplace and the land where I grew up, while Himachal became the land where I found myself, so which one is truly my home.
And I guess in the process of taking birth to building a life over the years, I found a home in the mountains, and then it didn't matter how we named those mountains, for they were all the same, I was as closer to the ones far away as I was to the ones in front of me.
Home was everywhere, in every part of these mountains, as I sat by the river on the banks of which I was born decades ago.
Learning, that maybe I was the home I have been looking for.
P.S. The water wasn't as blue as it seems, the picture was taken under darker skies at a really long exposure of around 1 minute, which made it look bluish while the sky seemed brighter, as it was 30 minutes before I took the picture. at Karnprayag, Uttarakhand, India
When you guys ask me what I did to gain followers on Instagram, here's my answer.
I consistently try creating something.
This might seem like an ordinary set of pictures, but I would beg to differ.
I had always known the technicalities of panning shot, but for some reason I never gave it a try until last night. As I stood alone, at 2:15 AM, near Red Fort in Delhi, waiting for my bus, I decided to give panning photos a try with my old broken phone to pass time.
And here are the results.
And so, I must tell you how art at times is not born out of happiness or sadness or inspiration of any kind, but it emerges from boredom.
Sometimes we need to give ourselves the liberty to feel boredom, to let ourselves not get distracted by other people or technology or anything else, but the whole act of sitting still, and not doing anything worthwhile actually makes us try to make our world a little more interesting, through creativity we store within.
And therefore, if you want to create art, start getting bored. at New Delhi
The chairs are empty these days,
Looks like the Gods prefer silence
Over commonplace words,
My dear. at Manali, Himachal Pradesh
That Simla girl
She sits by the window
In a cafe at Shimla's mall road,
Staring at the sunset,
With a coffee in her hand,
And words ready to escape her tongue
But she somehow holds them back.
If you meet her,
You'll recognise her
Sitting by the corner,
Hidden in her books,
Ready to break into a laughter
For no apparent reason,
A bit too shy to let her carefree self reveal.
But that part of her reveals itself,
When she reads out poetry to herself
And to mischievous monkeys of mall road,
And for some reason
They never trouble her,
For they always recognise
One of their kind.
But no one around her knows that,
They know of her
As this quiet girl from St Bede's,
A little too intimidating,
A little too confused in her own thoughts,
Walking by herself,
Through the lanes of middle Bazaar,
Buying another diary to fill it up
With her trails of thoughts,
And with poetry
That she catches out of thin air.
And if you see her,
You'll recognize her
By the way she wraps the shawl around herself,
Only to make sure the window of her corner stays open,
So she could enjoy slightly chilly post-monsoon evenings,
With her warm cup of coffee.
A little too intimidating,
A little too confused in her own thoughts,
To the passers by,
But to herself,
She's just another monkey,
Hopping over the rooftops,
Ready to seize another sunset,
In the mischievousness of every moment.
That Simla girl. at Shimla
I don't know where the road went,
If it was the one
Or frequented by many,
For I learned,
That at times
What matters aren't the distinctions
Made in our mind,
But the way we walk,
The way we travel,
The way we embrace the road,
And do we walk on them
With the same old notions
Or do we travel
With the freedom of our own soul.
For the light falls upon every leaf,
And every tree
All the same,
But some grow taller,
While the others grow
More beautiful. at Banjar, India
Why do we have to make sense,
All the time,
Why do we have to talk,
When silence is a beautiful land in itself,
Why do we have to indulge with others,
When we still don't know our own secrets,
And why do we continue bothering about,
Doing the small talk,
When we can lay down quietly,
Under a colourful sky,
And listen to every story
We hold within. at Bir, Himachal Pradesh, India
So last few weeks have been quite weird for me.
I don't know if you feel this way, but quite often I just lose the need to speak, or speak at length with anyone. And all I feel like doing is being silent.
And today as I complete two weeks in Delhi, I barely met any new person, which I used to whenever I came to Delhi, or atleast catching up with old friends, but how to make anyone understand that you just can't speak, can't hold a conversation anymore without feeling a sense of irritation at every word escaping someone's mouth, a word that wouldn't make any difference if it chose to just stay put inside their mind. And so I keep losing ability to hold a conversation, except a conversation done entirely in silence, living in our own individual space.
And I guess being in city is the worst way to experience this stage, especially where you're expected to meet people, or atleast have a conversation with someone you bump into, and so you end up risking quite a few friendships. But thankfully I've a few close few who don't compel me to speak, who just sit silently with me, or play FIFA with me for hours, or just hold my hand, kiss my cheek, and rest their head on me, understanding that I might not speak in words.
For I believe, sometimes the most meaningful conversation is to not say a word, and be silent.
And I can't stop loving the one who continues understanding it. at Sangla, Himachal Pradesh, India
Himachal is filled with all the colours.
And yet, the most beautiful colour of Himachal is the happiness you feel while living through the magic of every moment in the mountains. at Tirthan Valley
Maybe love was like a fleeting Delhi evening.
She smiled, staring at the sky changing colours as she stared at the tomb through the fallen branches, and through the stories flowing between lovers who were out for an evening walk. And she missed him.
She missed him with every ray that was piercing the thin veil of clouds and lending a new colour to the sky by every passing moment, through which an airplane would fly across after every few minutes, breaking her chain of thoughts.
The city kept moving like everyday, but these evenings at Safdarjung Tomb were her escape, it felt as if whenever she walked through those medieval gates, she was being transported into a different world, a world where they were still together, stealing kisses behind the trees, trying to escape guards, and hiding behind red walls, to spend one more moment with each other.
His fingers would explore her like the streets of Chandni Chowk, where they'd run around, in search of another hidden gem that he'd click and she'd write about for the local travel magazine, and then they'd share a cup of tea, to make up for the taste of each other's lips that wouldn't be accessible until they were back in the balcony of his tiny studio in Lajpat Nagar.
The streets below would always be busy, supressing the sounds of her moans, which would then mix in the crimson of Delhi evenings, and by the time the night would arrive, they'd be all sweaty, but laughing, laying naked next to each other, wondering if they should go down for an ice cream, before it was time for her to leave for her PG.
She wondered if that was why she fell in love with this city, because she fell in love with him here. In every street, in every corner, in balconies of Lajpat Nagar, in lanes of Chandni Chowk, and in random corners of many a monuments across the city.
And so maybe, love was like these fleeting evenings of Delhi, as beautiful, as colourful as ever.
Filled with warmth of a humid September, an embrace of your lover in metro, a kiss after a cup of tea at CP, a dance on the terrace of Lajpat Nagar, a goodbye at T3.
As fleeting as ever, and yet, hopeful that one day, one such evening would last forever. at Delhi, India
Roads of Reckong Peo,
Once again take my name
As the first chill of the season,
Wraps the trees standing tall
Atop the slopes
Where Negi awaits my return.
The snowclad mountains,
Ask me to return in their shadows,
As once again
I continue my journeys
To Himalayan Gods.
A hot cup of tea,
Still lying on that shivering bench,
Clouds covering the blue skies,
Sunrays thawing the barren apple trees,
And the dogs on the streets once again waiting
To snuggle with you.
And the buses for villages unheard,
Ready to depart,
As if they're the portals
To dreams you haven't yet seen,
And you wonder
Which one to take today,
For they all are ready
To hide you in the deep secrets of Himalayas.
And so I think again,
Of returning to the roads of Reckong Peo,
Where a part of me
Can still be found,
Standing by a tea shop,
Waiting for the next bus,
To take him on a new adventure.
For those snowclad mountains,
Ask me to return
To parts of me
I still haven't found.
To the adventure,
Waiting for me,
Waiting within me. at Reckong Peo, India
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