Poesy through Lens

 New year, new thoughts, new words, a new journal.

 Winter mornings...icy, silken fog obscuring my trees.

 Owls make noises here. Every night.

Isolation in abode of trees.

Uruka fire, January 2012, Jorhat. Home. Warmth. Love. Hope.

An old pine tree. We were neck to neck a dozen years ago. My growth stunted along the way.

Reeds. Bamboo thicket. In front of my old home. Futile attempts every day to shield the sun.

 Trees on my path. Rural Kamrup.

 I slept through this heaven on earth for a month, slouching in the backseat of the car, too tired at the end of the day. And one day, I peeked through the window as we crossed a rickety wooden bridge and turning into this lane, I drove through the most beautiful path in my life.

 Narakachal Hill, Guwahati. Late evening. Long, quiet halt.

Fishermen wade through it with nets, and fishing hooks fling into it in unison. Busy mornings are followed by serene, crimson evenings. Rural Kamrup.

My home front. Winter had stripped the trees naked of foliage but the bare branches, jutting out awkwardly, look beautiful on a moonlit night.

Here I learnt my ABCs

   

    

Here I learnt my ABCs and fractions. I sang, I danced. I wrote poems. I ran races and spent hours on the swing. I prayed at the church. Believed in the rumour about the ghost in the church. I browsed for hours at the tiny library. I borrowed a book about dollhouses once, and spent a summer creating them. I watched cartoon movies here once a week, huddled with the whole class. I listened enraptured to the music teacher's guitar playing. I ate lunch under the shade of the trees. I played in the sun. I queued to get into the school bus. I learnt. I played. I started my life here. I loved my life here.

Donbosco Primary School, Jorhat.