Generalist | Hobbyist | Architect | Writer | Urban Practitioner | UCL DPU | SPA B | Commonwealth Scholar

“I wonder much if one could paint,
all colours one night-sky reveals;
depths to which streetlights faint,
or through layers that mist conceals.

Beaming porches quickly pass me by,
like distant dreams of lovers lost;
buried somewhere deep in winter’s shy,
though, still wishful like morning frost.

And then my thoughts travel to you,
like platforms, small, warm and still;
memories of whom fading eyes long drew,
then slept and submitted to time’s will.”

“The red curtains been drawn down and folded,
packed in cardboard boxes with the rest of your memories;
the ghost of the cat sits next to me
and looks at the ruins of my previous abode,
and it doesn’t know what to tell me,
so it scratches the boxes and then rolls on its back;

“Warm smile, green eyes,
white cardigan, long sleeves,
drunken laughs, innocent stories;
early morning sunshine
falling on both of us;
how can anyone not fall in love?”

“Day and night and day pass by,
the walls now turning weary;
day and night sicken hopes fall apart,
the soul now turning dreary.

The wooden frames shudder and shriek and shrill,
and welcome in home wildflowers;
numbness and nostalgia never leave me,
under my quivering bower.”

“How sorry is this nightly romance,
my dear, the starless sky;
wearing a veil of the dark abyss,
where even the heavens fall dry.”

Image Credits:

“Twice the edge, sharpened glass,
cold transparence of ice;
I was the earth cracked apart,
the fuming volcanic vice.

Surface of glade and gleam,
unfathomable heart of sorrow,
wrap me, break me in your scent;
drown me out tomorrow.
Wetness of a moment’s wave
something too much to borrow.

I stand swindled, shrinking,
falling in and out with time;
pieces, a day’s light apart;
white plaster, soft and benign.”

Image Credit: Anya Melnikova, Unsplash

“I sit upon these concrete planes,
and share in shame the sorrowed place;
and ink with a humbled pace –
my mind on paper — defaced!

An impression of the turmoil my mind is in,
a moral war within us, that delves;
the ignorance bliss on both our hands,
all that caused this rebel.

I am sorry for I haven’t been right,
for nor do I promise to be;
as I stand with a mellowed face,
and a deep dying flame in me.

And I beg of you to be the better man,
acknowledge the sin and keep your grace;
keep up or I will keep stumbling forever,
for both to fall to oblivion’s embrace.

For all I am, a floating candle,
and all my happiness this gleam;
that flickers with the burning hope,
of your own forgotten dreams.”

“I watch the pencil shades fall to oblivion
with each thought, effort undone;
without a flinch, I pull next out,
for I bask under the glory of the sun.

I am tested, in time and heart
to be doomed, failed, forlorn;
now erratic, unfitted, incompetent,
I bask anyway for the sun to scorn.

Once this life I’ll sketch in the city sky,
hold true, a temple of the highest storey;
to stand effortless, ignorant of all existence or oblivion,
and the knowing sun will bask in its glory.

That once a day, I’ll dance in the rain,
to the roar of the temple gong, again and again.”

A case of human-elephant conflict and mitigation in the Indian subcontinent

Image Courtesy: RMA Architects

The Asiatic elephants (Elephas Maximus) were domesticated around 8000BC as can be understood from Indus Valley seals. Their sheer strength, virility, patience and empathy, saw their purpose in military, economy, transportation and philosophy. An animal of the royal decree, they prevented Alexander’s army from crossing the river to reach the…

“Birds come calling, the vegetable vendor
sings through the street, day’s incredulity
never ceases to exist in ruined splendour
cyclic musings have lost their specificity
lying curled up, this wilting warm cotton
its once colourful colours, is a fading bed
and objects of meaning decay, forgotten
mind keeps playing within a line instead
like a pendulum, between the two ends
its story goes, each time with no grace
it yelps and longs to make truce, amends
the past that has robbed identity of space
disguising brooding loss lights my brow
on fire open windows, naked world blurry
where the soul lied, it is vagabond now
knocks all doors, gasps for your memory
the very first sweet one, it is unblemished
it is a favourite, housing my leaving ego
immolating future possibility, a famished
asking to begin again, in waiting to forego.”

Tarun Bhasin

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