Evening at Dhauligiri, Odisha. These days I have been trying to understand places. I am not even a regular walker but I think about outside a lot when I am inside. I walk and walk because that is what slows me down. To walk is to move at a regular pace by lifting and setting down each foot in turn, never having both feet off the ground at once. There is so much rhythm in walking, that all my poems land on the ground first, as words find a crack between black tar and stare at this gap with curiosity, like crows at the passing bulldozers. Tales of Hazaribagh is that ‘lifting and setting down each foot in turn’. A Zeitroman, the book is an intimate exploratory account of something which neither ends nor begins. Hazaribagh is pursued actively in conversations, anecdotes, histories, spectacular ordinariness amidst aids like, Google Earth, a prophetic grandfather who knows everything about everything, and confident young guides like Md. Danish Ansari. Morning sun in Lansdowne Divided into s
Something like Aam Panna