Sahyadrica

Thoreau’s writings, especially Walking and Walden, have been crucial parts of my young adult life; I longed to be in the woods, alone, left to my own thoughts amidst nature – well, doing exactly as Thoreau now comes at a ginormous financial investment, so I did what I could and continue to do. Over the last ten years since I first read Walden, I have had plenty of such opportunities – I would add the timeless lock-up of eight months of 2020 which I thankfully spent reading and rereading Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five. It’s a long stretch between the two, but for me, Walden’s cabin or Vonnegut’s slaughterhouse are linked in more ways than one. Left: Walden; or, life in the woods by Henry D. Thoreau; available here , Right: Slaughterhouse-Five OR The Children's Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.; available here ; these are the early (first ed) covers. Lately, I am lost on titles, I cannot stick to one; if that is how Thoreau and Vonnegut decided upon theirs, alt...

For the first time I felt it, being stuck in space, coming unstuck in time. Summers are always eerily quiet; I think to myself this exceptionally silent summer of 2020. As I lie in my bed, stuck in a room dimly lit, staring at the blank ceiling, everything is still. The summer loo creeps in from invisible gaps, and I imagine it propelling downward from the ceiling fan, heating up the bottled water enough to make it distasteful. I am paralyzed in space. How many summers has it been for this summer to arrive? I close my eyes only to feel a sudden rush of a steel breeze. I’m over 3,000 meters above sea level, on a shoulder of the Gharwal Himalaya that leads to the Bandarpoonch Peak. I’ve just awoken from a sweet afternoon siesta after a hearty post-eight-hour-walk meal. My friend is poised on a tree stump admiring the setting sun over the Gharwal Himalaya. It is May of the year 2006. After four days of clouds and rain and snow, it has opened up. Soon the darkness grips us and the cold w...

A hint of light first dapples my window Then slowly a golden streak creeps in From a gap in the door Spilling light on the floor I remain unperturbed for as long as I can Before a persistent Coppersmith Barbet From a giant Fig in the distance Begins to recite his concordance A warm breeze careens across the yard Not the most pleasant of its kind, but more earthy Making Saja and Lendia wean Draping Kosum and Sal in crimson and green Then suddenly a symphony picks pace A Brown-headed Barbet contests with a Coppersmith The latter ringing a copper bell The former beating a talking drum As if on cue the Common Hawk Cuckoo begins his concert For whom only three syllables make do A wayward country singer at a fair Singing pa-pi-ha in the summer air And as the shadows shrink in the hard of the heat A Crested Serpent Eagle whistles at another in the sky Standing in the blazing grassland I happen to overhear This most melodious of eagles, saying hey-come-here There...

The stone giants had put up a show by playing under the pre-monsoon showers of June the Second. A car had fallen prey to their nasty games. As we passed by its wreckage, staring at the giant sitting with his head in his hands, his hands on his bent leg, his large feet by the wreckage, sent shivers down my spine – it was awesome. Only a day ago I was roaming the hot and humid forests of Phansad Wildlife Sanctuary. We passed through blinding rains twinkling for a few seconds by lightening; silhouetting the somber figure of the stone giant from whose feet we turned left around the edge of Parsik hills range. If you follow this range down south, you will reach Panvel Creek as it pours into the Arabian Sea. The range continues as small hillocks as it spreads as Karnala Bird Sanctuary. South of this sanctuary, the range again breaks into small hillocks, several villages, towns, and roads crisscross this terrain, until, a little to the west – and closer to the sea – lie the typical coas...