Whispers and Words of M R Maiti

*** Continued from Just The Beginning (Rupin Pass Trek - Part 2) As the first rays of the early morning sun brightened Saruwas Thatch campsite into multiple hues, I showed MJ the spot I had in mind for a picture. With the sun on your face and the entire camp in the background, you had to sit atop an elevated rock, cross-legged, both arms extended and resting on your knees, the thumb and forefinger touching to make a tiny circle. Personally, I called it my Shiva pose. I only took that picture in select places, whenever I found a location and moment that felt right. Last time, it was at Tapovan campsite, at the base of Mt. Shivling. Before that, at Singalila Top, while looking at the Everest family and the sleeping Buddha. I struck the same pose at Chandrashila summit, as well. And, not to forget, atop the water tank of my house. I sat there in the same pose and looked at Hiranya Parvat, the first mountain I ever knew, the first mountain I ever climbed. My picture was done in two or thre...

*** Continued from The Silver Lining (Rupin Pass Trek - Part 1) When I woke up in Jakha, I was happier than the day before. Maybe because RCB had won the IPL final previous night. Maybe because my prayers were finally answered. It was still cloudy but rain seemed unlikely. Still, we wore our ponchos and rain jackets, just to be safe. And even though my knee didn't hurt anymore, I put on my knee brace anyway. Something positive inside me had woken up and it wasn't going to let me ruin the rest of the trek. "Mayank," I called out once we were back on the trail. Today, we were staying in tents, and Mayank seemed like a genuine, sincere, polite and humble person to have as a tent mate. He followed every instruction to the letter and was always punctual. In short, he was the opposite of me. "Are you sure?" he asked politely, after I made him the offer. "Don't you want someone in your age group?" "Age is just a number, my friend. The mountains ...

It has been two months since I came back from Rupin Pass Trek. The memories and feelings are in abundance. They catch up with me sometimes during a long meeting or during a random hangout with friends. And for a moment, I zone out and a smile spreads across my face. When somebody around me notices it and asks the reason, I just shake my head like an idiot. All that is fine, but during the past two months, I have been haunted by a question, something a fellow trekker, Rajib, said to me during the return journey. "Manish, you are a gem at heart. You are a silver lining for many. Keep smiling, brother...One last question, you don't need to answer it though: तुम इतना जो मुस्कुरा रहे हो | क्या ग़म है जिस को छुपा रहे हो ?" Normally, I would automatically respond with a witty or funny comeback. But I was speechless. Rajib had caught me off guard. It was as if a CCTV recording of a bank robbery showed my face in Ultra HD. There was no evidence to prove otherwise. All that remain...

It's 5 o'clock on a Thursday. Dogs are frolicking in the sand. Birds are returning To their native land. And I — I am noticing this only because Unlike my usual day, I logged off early today. In the hours I have gained, The songs play one after another. But in the silence between, I am forced to reckon with myself. Am I just a man who fills his days To avoid this exact moment? Have I been unknowingly Moving toward this life all along? The dogs don't know the difference. The birds have already left. *** Liked what I wrote? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

I once dreamt I had stopped breathing. Never before Had I felt More at peace With myself... Bereft of any want, Immersed in the quiet That lived On the other side Of the noise, As if the world... It had exhaled, And set me free With a sigh. And when I woke up, I lay still For a moment, Hesitant to rejoin the world, But morning, As it does, Came anyway. And the world... It resumed its rhythmic breathing Without seeking my permission. So I breathed again, Slowly and voluntarily, And made a quiet peace With being here, As long as I was here. *** Liked what I wrote? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

A man wants only one thing, Is what I have understood From the men I have known closely. After the weight of the day is lifted, A calm evening With his lover and kids, When he sips a cup of coffee, While looking at the sun, Setting over a mountain, From the balcony Of the house he built With his hard-earned money. Then, as always, The doorbell signals A welcome interruption, The gang arrives, The engine purrs, And they drive In no direction in particular, With their favourite songs Playing in the background. *** Liked what you read? What do you think men want? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

A day before my vacation came to an end, while I readied my luggage, already occupied mostly with the snacks prepared by my mother, my father had only one thing to add - a stack of postcards, along with an instruction to drop one in the letterbox every week, during my time in school. I used to be a dutiful son in my childhood days. I did as I was asked. Every Sunday evening, I took a stroll on my own, carrying a written postcard. Where the road from the hostel turned towards our classrooms, there was a huge tree, and attached to its massive trunk was a red letterbox. It was cylindrical and had two openings at the front side. The top opening had a flap that swiveled back on a gentle push, allowing me to drop the postcard. The bottom opening had a small door with a tiny lock on it. There was a certain kind of mystery associated with the entire thing - from the moment the postcard dropped with a hollow sound in the box to the moment it was delivered to my home. I never got to see the post...

I remember the time, I broke your doll as a joke. Crying, you ran to our mother And slammed the door on my face. I was eavesdropping when you said, 'I wish I had an older sister instead.' Later that day, Father called me to say, 'Some titles you are born with, You have to earn it all the same.' I remember the time, It was your college admission day. You stacked your documents in order, Then rearranged them neatly again, Smiling at strangers Who didn't know your name yet. Far away from home and parents, Standing by your side, I hope... I earned my title that day. *** A poem dedicated to siblings... Divided by gender, united by blood! Did you have any similar experience with your sibling? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** There's always Another mountain, Indifferent and silent, Summoning the same man. The pull of the climb Is all he has ever known. He doesn't spare a moment To mourn the valleys left behind. But it's lonely at the top. Breathless, he stops. The silence rushes in. He mourns those who fell behind. The drifting clouds morph into faces, The ones who didn't come along, They must have understood his eagerness, As he understood their reluctance. Then the clouds move on. And so does he. The clear sky has shown him Another mountain waiting. *** A poem dedicated to... mountains? What do you think? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

*** In ancient times, Driven by tribal mentality And resource scarcity, War was more commonplace For the fragmented societies. But every life a person took, It stayed with him, Their last exchange weighed on him. The grand accomplishment Of modern times Is humanity's greatest failure, Weapons that erase Thousands in one blow, A quick way to win a war. Now the wars simmer, not blaze, Diplomacy stokes the endless forge. When you have an abundant population, The body count doesn't hurt If distributed over a period of time, A mere handful at a time. I see all the wise men Gathered once again, Chest-thumpers and squabblers, Who never reach a conclusion, Because a war is only glorious, When it's prolonged and hard to win. Gods are children of misery. So are these wise men, Risen in the same way, From the anguish of countless devotees, Clinging to the dreams of better days. These fake Gods must go. We already have a pantheon of originals. Not to forget the third-eye wonder, One bl...

*** I unknowingly uttered My thoughts out loud, 'Amid this rush of endless scrolls, Only a handful read poetry, And even they... They fail to read the poet.' My friend was Quick with a reply, 'It's failure by design. If you wanted to be truly heard, You would have a conversation. You wouldn't write poetry.' *** I said to her, with a sigh, 'Maybe someday, I'll love myself Like you love yourself.' She replied, with a smile, 'Maybe someday, The ones who strive to light the world Won't be immersed in darkness themselves.' *** "Life sucks." "Yes, it does." And just like that, In a string of conversations, Life would have come to pass, Even become a little better along the way. Or so I thought... When I cried at her wedding, It wasn't because of losing her. I was thinking of another wedding, I had planned to attend, But never could and never will. The silver lining has come loose now. Wearing a threadbare coat, I'm r...

***  If he spits it out, The world perishes If he swallows it, Death claims him at once. So, he cradles the poison In his throat, Bestowing a bluish sheen, A symbol of eternal sacrifice. If I lay it all bare, The indifference would kill me. If I keep it pent-up inside, I'll choke and die. So, I mask the poison, With blue markings on paper. The fancy wordplay is nothing but A never-ending compromise. *** Dedicated to Lord Shiva, the one who can destroy the world, but chooses not to. Wish you a Happy Mahashivratri! In 2018, I clicked this picture of Panchmukhi Shivling , located at the top of Chandrashila Peak , right above Tungnath Temple , the highest Shiva temple in the world.

*** I am haunted by humans. It's not a line I came up with. I am not that good a writer. This sentence is from my favourite book. I won't reveal the name, because I don't need to. If the sentence was good enough to pique your interest, you might have already arrived at the answer by the space-age device called Google. (If reading this in 2025 or later, replace Google with ChatGPT, Perplexity, Meta AI or Gemini). There was a time when you had to know the right books or the right people to be aware of things. And asking a question, a genuine, spontaneous query uttered out loud, wasn't met with a look of disdain, but of wonder. Your inquisitiveness wasn't snubbed by the phrase: Why don't you Google it? I recall asking a question during an age when the internet wasn't as commonplace as it is now. Is Alexander Fleming related to Stephen Fleming, the New Zealand Cricket team captain? My biology teacher had no answer, nor did my friends. It wasn't relevant to t...