Tel Aviv Plays

Posted by admin on April 18, 2017
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The long street poles

along the promenade

cuts a right angle with the

straight line of the horizon

Carving up the Mediterranean sea

and sky into two hues of blue and green


The swirling waves crowned with white horses

hurry to the beaches

And spit similar image

in the tiny burst of clouds floating in the sky


People frolic in the beach,

beach bumming or just looking on at the waves

Cool-legged girls sun their milk and honey, soft-brown bikini bodies

that shine in the sharp Levant sun

as their black, olive curls flow at the direction of the breeze

The unrestrained breakers keep licking their toes


The waves breaking hard at the stony quay, a loud crash

is a catalyst that creates high tides in the veins of the boys of the summer

And one with passionate spontaneity

lifts a young woman he desires and plunges forward to the sea

The woman’s fleshy hips bouncing and bulging on his shoulders

until he collides against the tide…a loud splash


Drinking a cool corona and tuna pizza with fellow lunchers

softened up and slacking in the afternoon draft

that swirl the hairs of girls tying it up while caught up in their chat


A classy granny enjoying her drink with olives

and catching the waves raft

The window panes of tall buildings glint with the sun


As the afternoon give way to evening,

the sun dips fast, casting an orangy glow in the sky

Settling just for a second in the line where the sky and the sea meet

Just enough to cast a glimmer of red,

into the faces of a row of burqa clad women

until sizzling into the sea.

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Road and River

Posted by admin on March 23, 2017
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Chuya highway

The road runs parallel to the gushing river,

They’re like two lives running together with same intensity

The road takes a curve, the river bends

Bringing to mind picture of lovers copying each others’ moves and making amends


While I reasonably wait for the journey to end

the road and the river seem to be in a ceaseless affair

because till the time they are together they don’t want to leave nothing to chance

Until another curve and bend brings to end their romance


Perhaps in some other place and time they will suddenly see each other once again

And continue with their unknown destination

When one road stops, another begins

A small stream turns into river, flows and sings

photo by:

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In the Sauraha Jungle

Posted by admin on March 14, 2017
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It was late spring but already very  hot in Chitwan. A lazy, restful silence was in the air until a jeep drove past the empty road billowing a cloud of dust.

“You’ll just be making a round of the jungle,” the rickshaw man said as we sat in a restaurant waiting for the elephant to arrive. He was beetroot-red in the face and sweating heavily after the ride in the sun.

Heaving a long and tiresome sigh, he wiped his face and hands with a damp towel flung round his neck and continued, “There are tigers, rhinos, leopards, and other wild animals out there, but it’s mid-day and very hot, so they’ll not be easy to spot. They will hide deep in the bushes.”

The heavily built restaurant-owner nodded. “He’s right. If you’d come later in the afternoon, like at 3 or 4, you’d have had a better chance of spotting wild animals. It’s very hot now.”

“Nobody told me that before,” I said, feeling a little helpless, “not even the man who sold me the tickets. He claimed that some tourists had spotted a tiger just this morning. Was he telling me a lie just to sell the tickets?”

“Only rarely are tigers and leopards seen in the jungle, and certainly not at this hour,” the restaurant owner replied. “They come out of their hiding to make a kill or drink in the ponds late in the afternoon when it is much cooler. But you’d still have to be  very lucky.”

Sauraha was not accustomed to welcoming visitors at this time of the day. The shops were still shuttered and restaurants deserted, save for waiters fanning themselves or lounging on tables under the shaded terrace. There was nothing to do, but wait. Continue reading…

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Darjeeling Sling

Posted by admin on February 04, 2017
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Darjeeling, Darjeeling, oh Darjeeling…

Queen of the Hills… Darjeeling

To be in her laps, is like stirring in the midst of clouds

flowing down the crag

that embraces you in its chilly, cotton,

nauseating swing

transporting you to a distant past, memories that are

black & white – the monochrome that sets in the town,

in the drenched high streets, ridges, alpine trees

after a cold, sad rain that brings

thick, bluish fog of eve

that chokes the life out of this presumptuous old hag


Along the streets that rise

from the chaos of lower bazaars

Past damp, derelict looking wood

and concrete clusters of buildings,

past the moss-covered clock tower

The ticklish whiff of momo and tongba steaming

in the air from roadside eateries and bars

Walking up the winding streets

dazzling with yellow lights from shops, as girls with fresh pinkish cheeks

haggle and boys try to woo them playing on guitar

until you reach the wide expanse of Chowrasta

where people congregate on the benches

and talk about filthy local politics and their garden flower


In the morning, the town bobs up and down,

recover and disappears again in the mist

The Kanchenjung seem like a stately iceberg

that appear and vanish in thin air

While the verdant tea gardens roll in the hills in a gentle tryst

On a clear day with the erratic sun

blazing the town suddenly come alive,

all flushed like a comely young girl, blooming spring flower, unplucked, swirling as a feather, crisp

This sudden transformation of this frazzled old maid

reveals the innate delicateness of her youthful days

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Locomotive People

Posted by admin on January 19, 2017
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an evening at new market!

At the Raxaul train station people were shoving and jostling in line for tickets. Although not a major railway junction, the station was brimming with people. Some sat on their haunches while others lay on the floor, fanning themselves to beat the flies and the heat.

The Express arrived two hours behind schedule, its compartments almost deserted. A group of neatly dressed Gurkhas were placing their luggage on the platform. A lanky man stood out from the group. He was rather shabby compared to others. He clearly didn’t belong to the Gurkha group. With a smile on his pale face, he spoke with a slightly older Gurkha with broad shoulders and pursed lips.

I talked to another man in uniform, and he said I could travel with them in the military bogie, if I wanted. Despite having a reservation elsewhere, I could not turn down the offer.

Once on the train, I took a window seat and watched the soldiers settle, putting their luggage under the long wooden seat that could double as a bed. Soon, the train left the station. The movement was a relief from the mid-day heat and humidity. Continue reading…

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Evening in Paris

Posted by admin on November 02, 2016
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Paris is well worth a mass
Where lovers come to find romance
City of Light, A movable Feast
Spiraling and spiraling
the wide boulevards
form a network of spider’s web

And caught in the aligned
Tree-lined streets with cream-grey
Buildings with aligned top balconies
I say, Ah, Paris, finally made it
Blowing smokes of satisfaction
Sitting on the table of a packed café
That spill out into the streets

A city built for the sights and the senses
That, like a woman retaining her reserved sensuality
With declining age
Bewitches a young man with her elegance, fineries

And as if she exists in two realms
Only understood by Seine’s subtle bends
She transforms into a young, aquiline woman in love
Who gives you her everything while still retaining
Her innocence, purity and charm

But be aware oh! New, novice lovers
Easily mesmerized by looks
Try to see beyond flower filled balconies and windows
Because like the way she navigates the
Boundary of the old and the new trudging
The many bridges
You will find that she also wears
Two faces- one she always displays with
All the cosmetics and perfume of the worlds
The other she only reveals to those who
Have patience enough, and passion, to look

Looking intently at the surviving
jingle jangle of love locks at the Pont des Arts
Pairs, arm-in-arm, stroll
leisurely across the arch bridge
As if seeking blessing for their
Own committed love
From the innocent impressions of time

And in the labyrinthine mesh of the Parisian metropolitan
A frail and frazzled woman in grey jacket,
with her purse dangling down from her fingers
Remains standing staring at nothing in particular
Like an owl in daytime
As people walk swiftly past her
On the very busy passageway
Throwing not so even as a glance

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Ode to Singapore

Posted by admin on October 23, 2016
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I approached you slowly in the windy, moon-lit night
gliding like a Japanese torpedo to dock at your port-side/
Of course, I was dwarfed by your high-heels, stilts
As I burned my fingers in the rubies and sapphires of your necklaces, earrings, bright bracelets that generations of fortune hunters and sailors adorned you with/

Mystical you are, I had heard a lot about your oriental elegance from those who visited you/
But the mystery lady you are, you made me wait for long
Until finally, after years, you sprawl before me, purple satin-silk… tight mouth singing a song/

Those razor cut, fine mandarin eyes staring both softly and sharply
to forbid ghosts, evils from diving in and make you raging and mad/
And as calm descended, you took me in
and covered me in the starry night of your straight, perfumed hair/

Melting me in the fuel of your body all night/

You troubled me in the morning with your heat kept alive by the flame deep beneath you bulging hips/
And for three days I was lost in your contours, your highs and the lows, as I traced my quick breathe on them
Appreciating your silent, soft courtesies
Caressing the delights, fantasies that your slowly spread/

But I am angry with you as only a lover could
cause you didn’t speak to me, not a word all the time we held and embraced/
And my attempts to know you deepest oceans, swim in your fleeting stories went in vain
As I realised that nothing binds you, you are not even in the moment
you are a city in constant transition/

Your charms are reserved for the lusty white, yellow and brown worshipers of wealth
As you abandon your children to the stressful toys
So the migratory birds soars over you, spread its wings and states
I am unable to answer the sphinx at your gates

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Snow on a hot autumn day

Posted by admin on July 08, 2016
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What, snowfall on a hot autumn day!?

But it ain’t a deception, a clever use of metaphor
for it is a dandelion snow
Seeds thrown upon the winds
their fine, feathery growths spinning and spinning like a helicopter rotor
Some fall softly and safely in the ground and disappear
but hundreds soar high in the winds, fuzzy and cotton-like
to be carried in the breeze, perhaps for miles or just another dark pit,
who could say?

Then another accidental current blows over the crowded junkyard of what used to be a garden
And as if in a flash a fresh dandelion snow

Each seeds independent (sometimes attached) their silver wings helping                                                                                 them move up in the winds

And they seem to say this as they soar–

“We know we’ve been abandoned in the air current by our ruderal                                                                                              parents in their last act of love, to live our respective fates and lives”

“Some of the lucky ones amongst us will travel great distances and                                                                                              perhaps find a better place to soak up the sun and survive”

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tit for tatoo

Posted by admin on April 07, 2016
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An artist tattoos a visitor during the 6th International Tattoo Convention in Kathmandu, Nepal, April 3, 2016. More than 150 artists from different countries and regions take part in the convention which runs from April 1 to April 3. Sunil Sharma

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Kirtipur’s Indrayani Festival

Posted by admin on December 22, 2015
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Devotees carry the chariot of an idol of goddess Indrayani during the Indrayani Festival at Kirtipur, outskirts of Kathmandu, Nepal, Dec. 20, 2015. The festival is celebrated every year with the goddess Indrayani and lord Ganesh kept in chariots and roamed around the streets of Kirtipur with traditional instruments. (Xinhua/Sunil Sharma)



Devotees stand to offer prayers to an idol of goddess Indrayani during the Indrayani Festival at Kirtipur, outskirts of Kathmandu, Nepal, Dec. 20, 2015. The festival is celebrated every year with the goddess Indrayani and lord Ganesh kept in chariots and roamed around the streets of Kirtipur with traditional instruments. (Xinhua/Sunil Sharma)


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