Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 3

‘You are Not Alone — I Am with You’: Kashmir.

On a stroll over mountains, then valleys
where you are not likely to meet anybody —
you are forced to meet your inner self, and in solitude you will find your true voice.

On a narrow, steep hill track to Astanmarg,  
just over an hour’s drive from Srinagar — 
no Uber or Car hire services take you up,     
yet I was  lucky to be there with myself. 

Driven by Moomin, a twenty two year old —  
dynamic, enthusiastic, a conversationalist,  
he drives to be back home in Kashmir,  
three months after a HR job in Chandigarh.

I was walking uphill past the Tulip garden 
when he first saw me, stopped his vehicle,
offering to drive me up to Pari Mahal
then Chasma Sahi: knowing Srinagar well.

His persuasion hired him for Rs 500 at 4pm,  
as the walk up there is through a jungle — 
one cannot risk bears, or wild animals, 
even if rowdy tourists are worse than them. 

At 6.30pm I returned to Botanical Garden,
took an hour's walk to my stay, at Brein —
where I was met by a phenomenal sunset,
visible in quiet solitude and introspection.

Then Moomin called me daily on waking up,
which for him was usually before eleven —
to enquire where we’d be going that day,
insisting he’d drive me all around Srinagar. 

We had a Wazwan near Shalimar Garden,
driving up to Astanmarg before sunset — several days he’d sleep late in Ramzan,
yet on his fasting days he’d wait for me late.

An alert sense of responsibility he carried, 
having a Bachelor of Commerce degree — a Human Resources job, gave him empathy
with a professional attitude, I saw through. 

One morning when he called,
I urged him,
‘I want to drive right through Dal lake’ —  
he looked quizzically, the first he heard this,       
maybe assuming I’m sad, lonely, suicidal.

Yet, he drove me over a tiny quaint bridge    
none agreed to, past a car of fearful locals,
through a scenic village, to Jama Masjid —  
trusting me, he learned more about his hometown.

Like on life’s trip, trust has to be mutual —          
I had gauged his driving skills, toughness,  
from drives up and down steep rocky paths,
while he developed faith in my judgments. 

You need faith in a partner’s strokes to win,
playing in a doubles-game of lawn-tennis —         
in life’s romantic and professional paths  
you need trust in your partner’s life-wisdom. 

In Kashmir, emotionally intelligent people, 
they proved to me, my God is concerned —  
I might think I’m alone in my solo travels,          
they ensured I was at home in my sojourn. 

— Shuvashree/ 18th to 26th  April 2025, the 2nd week of my stay in Kashmir. 

PS: in writing this, my Tennis analogy reminded me of an excerpt from my book Existences in the link below: https://shuvashreeghosh.wordpress.com...

I will share the link to the photo album shortly

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‘Love in Many Lives’: Kashmir.

‘Love in Many Lives’

Driving into the precincts of Manasbal lake,              
sky and water I was unable to distinguish —
both covered in a thick blanket of mist,      
over them a slight soft drizzle, panoramic. 

I waited in the car viewing from atop a hill,   
nature’s painting in Kashmir’s March chill —
just a sprinkling of few people and shops,  
among them a young couple I noticed.

I then walked behind them at a distance,    
mentally noting their elation at the ambience
that was just appropriate for their mood — 
they walked hand in hand but at a distance.  

They strolled to the submerged relic temple, 
after buying themselves their entry ticket —
around the ancient structure half in the lake,
they walked inquisitively evading puddles.  

The woman held out her hand to the man
to avoid slipping — but he hesitated taking it
as a public display of emotion isn’t proper, 
but once he held light, there was no leaving.

Walking around the temple a few times
it was as if their souls were again reunited,
the woman mature, reborn before him —
together after several rebirths, I imagined.

In this life, crossing puddles, as if hurdles,
around the lake the man clutched her hand
leaving the temple they first married in —
moral police, religion can’t break their union.   

The kind of love that lasts beyond lifetimes,
is if she loves with no conditions attached 
that he’s afraid of losing her in this life  —         
as he’s not been loved this way before her. 

Loving him in this lifetime, for all lives,        
so he will feel that all the people before her   
who broke his heart never truly loved him —
thereby fulfilling his fearsome troubled soul.

He will learn, her love isn’t only all chemistry     
but a transformative matter of alchemy —
that it goes from less to more so ethereally,
that he’ll be loved forever as he’s dreamed.

Whether Radha-Krishna or Laila-Majnoo, eternal  love of several lifetimes comes true
if you learn to recognise it as it faces you —
instead of running away, as if from a ghost.   

This couple were enjoying their romance as I watched them in each other's presence, 
like a filmmaker looking through lenses —      
in my mind, reality and imagination merged.


PS — The concept of "love in many lives" explores the idea that a person can be in love with the same soul or person across multiple lifetimes through reincarnation. This belief suggests that relationships, whether romantic or otherwise, can continue through different incarnations, with individuals experiencing various aspects of love in each life. 

The photo album: https://www.facebook.com/share/15EV1uq5bn/?mibextid=wwXIfr

This post and the last few poem posts on Kashmir, are my practise-sessions, warm-up and reiki of the locations, in the lead up to the marathon of writing a novel.

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‘The Village in-Waiting’: Kashmir

Cluster of houses in a village in Pulwama —
unplastered bricks alternating layers of mud
within frames of timber, their sloped roofs
of tin sheets in typical Kashmiri architecture.

Owners' souls, near Apple town Shopian,
left back over three decades ago, here —
following the 1980’s armed insurgency
against Indian rule, till 1990 the severest.

Deserted houses in mounds of rubble —
bushes and grass overgrown around them,
making homes a pasture, where villagers
graze cattle amid a few revived houses.

In March 2019, here Muslims and Hindus —
restored to past glory, an 80 year old temple
with a dome rooftop, a bell from the ceiling,
in colourful walls around its sacred Shivling.

Muslim neighbours supervised this work,
also served tea to labourers, out of love —
far from usurping vacant houses of Hindus,
awaiting them to reclaim or sell their homes.

“Our valley is incomplete, without our Pandit
brothers,” says resident Ghulam Rasool —
“unfortunately, they migrated from Kashmir,
where Hindus lived happily for centuries.”

“It would have been difficult, before 1990,
to distinguish Kashmiri Hindus and Muslims,
someone cast his evil eye on our valley,” —
is his sentiment still reflecting in this vicinity.

I have heartfelt empathy with this ghost story
as my parents migrated from East Pakistan,
under more ferocious, deadly tyranny —
hatred the Media didn’t cover as in Kashmir.

My paternal hometown, now in Bangladesh
in Kolakopa, Bandura, is in Dacca district —
zamindar houses burned in vengeance,
but if your identity is known you cannot visit.

My families' houses, now usurped by locals,
converted into grand heritage spectacles —
charred houses were revived and beautified
to fetch government accolades and income.

A story is pertinent from a narrator's angle
depending on how it is projected to people,
it can be spun like a child’s kaleidoscope —
in haste, to look like shades black and grey.

Kashmir, I encountered in my solo travels,
is a story untold, I intend to tell in a novel —
juxtaposed with my migration inheritance,
as literary fiction, rings truer than journalism.

— Shuvashree/ 13th March, 2025.
The photo album: https://www.facebook.com/share/1AULaV...
the 3 video clips at the end give you an essence of this place.
I have taken the photos like it’s not a ghost village but one in-living.

*****

The album of my paternal hometown, in erstwhile East Pakistan, in 2013: https://www.facebook.com/share/15enxi...?

The current status of the same place: https://www.alonelytraveler.com/old-b...

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A Period Piece: Mughal History, Badamvaer, Kashmir.

Its enchanting locales, the beauty of Kashmir
lies in its changing weather and topography. 
Every season heralding a picturesque novelty, 
distinct from each time you visit this valley.  
                                                                  
Misty smoggy drizzles, my favourite visions,
discerning aspects of Spring and Autumn —
transport you to a romantic film sequence,  
a slide show in celluloid of love and opulence.
                                                                    
The setting of a Mughal period drama I’m in,
around a Fort a majestic Almond orchard — 
in it, I imagine I’m Queen Jodha Bai leisurely strolling, 
following me around is the Emperor Akbar. 
                                                                      
He annexed Kashmir to his Kabul Subah —     
at the foot of Hari Parbat Fort that he founded:   
Dogra monarch Ranbir Singh later planted           
in its gardens a ‘Badamvaer’ almond orchard.


The serenity and beauty now  is peerless,  
through the chill, there’s mist and a drizzle  — 
in my view a couple, a twin-flame connection,        
incarnated by several births, a Jodha-Akbar.


Twin flame relationships, are challenging, and intense,
thus potentially leading to their separation —
followed by emotional turmoil and a deep fear, 
as they confront their deepest fears they come together.  


I walk rain drenched paths scented by bowers  
amidst almond blossoms, I see Jodha-Akbar —  
so surely in love but shy to walk hand in hand,
as public romance, cinema halls are prohibited. 


In my mind’s eyes, a quilt of imagination,     
that blankets every landscape I set eyes on —                 
as for hours I analyse character psyches,     
in solitude I paint their picturesque romances. 

—- Shuvashree/ 14th March, 2025

The photo album: https://www.facebook.com/share/18uafr...

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“A Horse Ride into the Wilderness”: Kashmir

"The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness." - John Muir 

A man approached me, offering a pony tour
by the river banks down to the valley below —
I promptly agreed knowing it was the only way to explore scenic mountain terrain, faraway.

Trekking on these precarious mountain tracks
needs fortitude and practise to enjoy stunts —
with no clue where you’d ascend or descend, 
even practised ponies slip on many a ledge. 

I had Kahwa with a cake to uplift my stamina
at a homestay, where tiny village girls foraged
for money, to buy goodies they craved —
their shrewd-innocence, my smiles waylaid.

The man Javed helped me mount the saddle,
gifted to him by a woman from Switzerland —
trotting off, I waved to my driver Hussain, 
unaware I’d be gone four hours at a stretch.

***

On a Sunday I was headed to Sonmarg —
my driver, a dignified middle-aged warm man,
he chatted from the moment I sat in his car,
we agreed we dislike loud, garrulous talk. 

By when we left Srinagar we were acquainted
yet to play music he sought my permission —
over melody breezing through scenic locales, 
to keep me company he made conversation.

“You’ve been to Sonmarg already” he stated,
“amidst throngs of humanity, why go again? 
I’ll take you to a place, we don't take tourists,   there’s solitude amid river, valley, birds, hills.

My pilgrim pictorial mind envisioned the sight
on which a relic temple, he superimposed  —
not a moment's doubt on his intentions I had, 
as I chose to avoid noisy tourists, at Sonmarg.

After driving two hours, up winding hill tracks
flanked by quaint villages, rustic markets —
at a sharp turn four boys waved to us to stop,  their faces made me ask the driver to halt. 

They introduced themselves shyly on request, 
all went to school from classes four to nine —
the oldest was now in his sixteenth year,
all with canisters of mineral water from tanks. 

After they got off, we swirled atop a hill to halt,
atop a plateau, as I looked around in awe —
viewing a series of handsome stone houses, 
amidst which, a stone temple of prominence.

I noticed a village’s centerpoint behind us —
shops shut now, that sell daily requirements.
It was sunny here, after the chill of the drive  leaving Srinagar’s mist and drizzle behind.

***

At first, the descent downhill seemed easy,
the pony Nilam taking to the walk readily —
to my right edge river Sind accompanying us,
descending steeply I trusted Nilam implicitly. 

We passed several gypsy wood cottages
now vacant, but in them shepherds reside —
coming from Punjab through warmer months
before chill and snow blankets households.

There wasn’t a human in sight, horses grazed on dry leaves or twigs, by the water’s side —
we steeply descended on paths Nilam chose, to balance my weight I bent in front or back.

After an hour’s ride the descent was so steep
over narrow tracks, on which we barely fit —
Javed trusting Nilam to keep me upright, 
didn’t foresee his elation on seeing his friend. 

Mules known for their strength and hardiness, over that docility, make them invaluable — typically sterile they don’t reproduce,
yet Nilam saw his mate, ran to be with him.  

I trusted the pony, talking to him endearingly
since the moment we met on the hillock —
whispering his name into his ear to be familiar
I was crushed by his betrayal of my kindness.

Javed didn’t see, I lunged ahead precariously, 
immersed in picturesque ethereal environs —
I felt my soul fly between two distant glaciers,
on their descent to the river gushing below.

I pulled Nilam’s reins, calling out, ‘Javed’
but the pony’s neigh in greeting his mate —
louder than my voice of sheer bewilderment,
yielding to God as if in my last life-moment.  

Javed heard his pony before he saw me, 
startled from the conversation on our lives —
he grabbed Nilam’s reins to prolong my end,
in those moments I had lived my whole life.

Ponies, are no different from immature people  
who desert moral duty to chase friends, 
even to be one of a herd of donkeys —
mules aren’t stupid to neglect work for them.

Once steady, calm after Nilam’s ditching me, 
Javed pulling his reins, gave me a branch —
I heard the river gurgle joyously at my rebirth,
surviving the deadly pain of stupid betrayal.

Nilam bolting, the heart-in-my-mouth event 
created a bond between me and Javed —
trusting my wisdom and crisis handling,
he narrated details of his life and misgivings.

Lower we descended, the view was heavenly,
I listened amazed, to Javed’s stories —
of Westerners he hosts yearly in depravity,
to get away from their stressful lives of plenty.

He shared on travelling in India with them,  speaks five languages — Spanish and French
with a woman for weeks in a gypsy hut —
he’s never been to school, can’t read or write.

*** 

Down by the river now, a tiny blue gate —
It was in over two hours we descended
on a bridge, snow below overlooking hills
streaked in chalk with nature’s Urdu writing.

I got off Nilam, for him to rest and munch, 
now coming across a few humans in hours —
which gave me courage to cross a ledge 
to the other side of the river, snow covered. 

Javed pulled me by hand, feet dug in deep into snow soft and deep between steps —
to stand on the other side of the thawing river 
between two glaciers, a cure for all my fears.

In the ethereal beauty of this snowy place — 
freezing in my mind this frame, I thanked God
as I looked up to see the precarious path 
I traversed in life, to reach this point in time. 

After we were well rested, I mounted Nilam —
we trudged up the steep rocky mountain path
so close to the edge that his misjudged step
would take me to death I no longer feared.

Javed pointed to a cluster of rock houses —
when I was narrating experiences of wariness
to satiate his curiosity on my trip here 
where no man was visible, to resuscitate.

After four and a half hours, we were back
before it was dark, to where I had left my car,
to find Hussain sitting at the edge of a hill —
worried, if bringing me here was an apt thing!

— Shuvashree/ 20th March 2025. 

The photo and video album of the day:
https://www.facebook.com/share/1Dbo2U...

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‘Paradise on Earth’ & Past life Connections: Kashmir.

Past life Connections: I strongly feel I have a past life connection with Kashmir, as it feels like home, wherever I go.
People accept me easily and warmly, and I’m energetically in sync with children and women embracing me from out of nowhere. Men spontaneously helpful, kind, friendly and even protective, like I was a long lost friend or family.
These children in the photos, don’t they resemble me somewhat and seem like my own — each of them came up to me individually like they knew me forever.
I gave them, also several boys who came up to me at this remote village atop the hills by a river, ten rupees each, and they were so elated. The tiniest girl in the photo with me here refused to go and told me — ‘give me another ten rupees, they will take away my ten’ and even after I gave her twenty more, she just stuck around till the last moment I left.
On the drive up here, that I will share about in the next post, four small boys out of nowhere flagged down my car at a sharp bend on the hill and though my driver continued driving ignoring them as I was alone in the back seat, I could not. I promptly asked him to stop and get all these kids inside with me. They ran up to the car. Three of them happily plonked beside me and one in front. They were on their way back from fetching natural mineral water from several cemented tanks around, far from their homes, in small steel canisters. The boys were shy but we chatted, the driver urging them on to talk and also asking them in Kashmiri to say thank you when they got off.
Two boys, one looked tiny and another tall, were in class 6; another one in class 4 and one in class 9. They all looked at me with a sense of ease and familiarity while the driver was stiff with them, really worried they would trouble me. I wanted to take them along further, but their homes arrived soon and they got off with a ‘Thank you’ in chorus . They all spoke in impeccable Hindi like almost everyone in Kashmir does.
At the Hari Parbat shrine in my previous photos, just before I was going to leave the premises, an old lady and two young girls, all in Hijab’ came and looked at me with such warmth and friendliness that I stopped walking. The girls asked me where I was from, while the old lady who was their grandmother clutched my hand abruptly and kept holding it. She told the girls in Kashmiri to tell me that she would like to chat with me but I won’t understand her so she simply wanted to hold my hand while I talked to the girls. They asked me about Calcutta and what I do and finally, innocently ‘Are you a Muslim?’ I shook my head hesitantly as I was in a mosque premise, thinking their expressions would change as I was in the shrine where not a single tourist was around. But instead, they looked back at me with so much love that I felt I was just one of them. They didn’t even flicker an eyelid. All this while up there I had felt uneasy as I didn’t know what to do ritualistically or how to behave for the past hour or more. I had just sat around after visiting the shrine from outside with the other women, absorbing the beauty around the fort above the hills, there in the ancient relics soaking in the warmth of the sun and the sukoon(peace). It was almost like Allah’s way of telling me through these people — don’t be hesitant in my house, you are also my child. This group wanted to keep chatting but I had a long way to go back and my driver had been fasting for Ramzan and I would release him my 6.30pm.
On the drive back from the village here with these little girls, we reached Srinagar just past 6pm and my driver stopped a few times where they were handing out large dates. He took one and then another promptly and insisted I have one as well and gave it to me and it was awesome. Then he stopped again and he picked up offering of bananas. Since he saw I was really touched he stopped at a point two young boys were district putting sharbat and when he rolled down the glass he asked them to first give me. The young boys and I looked at each other awkwardly, but as soon as I accepted my glass graciously, they smiled warmly like I was one of them, saying, ‘Ma’am have it, it’s Kashmiri sharbat’. It was the tastiest sharbat I have ever had in my life. My driver Hussain had also taken me for a Wazwan meal to his friend’s restaurant a couple of hours back though he was fasting. Then together we bought awesome bakery cookies, he a large box for his two grown children and family back home.
The best part of Kashmir is not its natural beauty, but the good compassionate hearts of its people everywhere you go. These are just a few of the several soulful connections I’ve had all over like I have never had in the rest of India. These series of experiences, the chemistry I had with this ‘Paradise on Earth’ made me look up the relevance of past life connections and below is what I found online.

Amir Khusrau’s Quote:
The phrase, “Agar firdaus bar roo-e zameen ast, Hameen ast-o hameen ast-o hameen ast,” translates to “If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this”.

Quoting…
“Past life connections, often explored through practices like past life regression, suggest that individuals may feel a sense of familiarity or connection with people, places, or experiences due to perceived connections from previous lives.
Here’s a breakdown of the concept:
What it is:
Past life connections, also known as soul connections or karmic ties, are the idea that people, places, and events in your current life may be linked to experiences from past lives.

Possible indicators:
Immediate familiarity: Feeling like you’ve known someone for a long time, even if you’ve just met them.
Deep empathy: Understanding and connecting with someone on a profound level.
Unexplained feelings: Having a strong sense of attraction or aversion towards certain people, places, or things.
Shared life goals or values: Discovering common interests or aspirations with someone you believe to be a past life connection.
Recurring dreams or visions: Experiencing dreams about past lives or specific events.
Purpose of past life connections:
Some believe that these connections are opportunities to resolve karmic issues, learn lessons, and grow as a soul.

PS: this is in continuation of the previous posts from Kashmir and a prelude to ones that follow.

#KashmirDiaries #kashmirvalley #kashmirbeauty #Kashmir #poetslife #novelist #authorlife

‘Love, peace, and Eid vibes’: Srinagar, Kashmir.

Love is in the air, everywhere I look around —
in flurrying pigeon wings I’m blanketed now,
with pure joy, in divine love I’m bound —
staring in awe at Khanqah-e-Moula mosque.

Its wooden carvings beautiful and stunning, decorated in papier mache of Kashmir —
located it is on the right bank of river Jhelum,
between Fateh and Zaina Kadal in Srinagar.

With love, I’ve come to seek God’s blessings
for a life ahead that would have meaning —
a purpose which would inspire all those,
I would have an opportunity in life to mould.

The birds black and white form ethereal webs,
around the mosque where they are well fed — I stepped into a realm of devotion and bliss, with a touch of the eternal, in hope and trust.

It was a misty morning with a light drizzle
making this visit meaningful and special —
whatever has Allah’s blessings may I uphold,
even if God’s love is all I’m left with to behold.

Architectural beauty of the place impelled me to stare, finding in it love, purity and peace —
but really it was trust that transfixed me,
as a connection I felt with God watching me.

— Shuvashree/ 31st March 2025.

Eid-ul-Fitr Mubarak!
May the Almighty render His mercy upon us!

The photo album is here: https://www.facebook.com/share/1Bd3Lwkt54/?mibextid=wwXIfr

PS: the photos in the second half are at the Shrine at the southern side of Hari Parbat — Makhdoom Sahib, the shrine of Hamza Makhdoom, a 16th-century Kashmiri Sufi saint Built below the fort is a mosque dedicated to Shah Badakhshi, a 17th-century Qadiri Sufi saint. The mosque was built by Mughal princess Jahanara Begum.

#kashmirdiaries #kashmirvalley #srinagarkashmir #Eid2025 #Eid #eidmubarak #visualpoetryphotography #poetry #poetrylovers #poetrycommunity #authorlife

‘Drunk on the Heady Concoction’: Sunset on the Dal lake, Srinagar, Kashmir.

The Sunsets in Kashmir and the Dal Lake
became my pillars of moral strength —
escorting me in Srinagar, wherever I went,
in my solo forays both were my confidantes.

Over daily long walks and Shikara rides
I embraced the solful heart of Kashmir —
Dal Lake, has to be it in all its magnanimity,
as it wrapped me in a blanket of security.

The snow laced hills that cradle the Dal,
with March winds tenderly thawing ferns —
as a baby, lulled my mind weary of words
after a marathon of writing a novel for years.

I viewed the sun descend over the horizon,
walking to and from Brien to Nishat garden —
the Dal in sinewy waves from a chilling wind
that warned my heart as it had felt bleak.

Shikara rides as a spa I took numerous times,
through it or circling the Dal in setting Sun —
to the floating Meena Bazar or Char Chinar,
an island that’s the motor boat’s furthest run.

A tangerine sun on my face I savoured,
with a tangy multi-fruit salad that was a blast
on my taste buds that now sought more fun —
its craving met at floating cafe’s we passed.

A series of vendors on tiny canoes I indulged,
viewing their stone and silver jewellery sets,
also wooden or paper mache artefacts —
as I awaited my Kahwa a d grilled sandwich.

The long Shikara ride past the Kabutar Khana,
cutting through the Lotus leaves and buds —
was a sauna for my emotionally wrecked soul
from betrayals, of lashings of life lived whole.

After a brisk stroll at the Char Chinar garden,
I was ready to set off on my real mission —
towards villages, viewing the floating harvests
over Lotus foliage in snowy cloud reflections.

The setting Sun made love to my face,
inviting me to hill crests, past a wooden bridge
on which a couple posed, reminding me —
I liked my company, a solo trip is not lonely.

The soft clouds, as if snow below the water,
with the slurping sound of the oars in solitude
as I lay back to view the ethereal frame —
made me feel safe and secure in nature’s lap.

Around me, there was not a soul in sight
as darkness was falling all around fast —
before I could fear, we floated into fairy lights
of a series of houseboats, a variety of shops.

The Shikara rider, tempted me to a treat — Kebabs, fish and chicken grilled in my view,
by an old vendor who came in his canoe,
on a call from my young Guide of four hours.

My Shikara rowed by a sportsman, Idrees, a student pursuing his Masters in Commerce,
just as many well educated youth in Kashmir —
illustrated the true dignity of all honest work.

In the holy month of Ramzan, this March —
with love, warmth, compassion of strangers
I partook of Kashmir’s sunsets on the Dal,
a tonic of well being to bring back to my world.

— Shuvashree/ 29th March 2025.

The photo album is here: https://www.facebook.com/share/199MQwrKUv/?mibextid=wwXIfr

#Kashmir #Srinagar #Dallake #poet #poetry #visualphotography #poetrycommunity #authorlife #visualpoetryphotography #photography #sunsetdallake #visualpoetry

‘A Ballet of Tulips’: Srinagar, Kashmir.

These are daffodils, though – just to add to the overall ambience.

Tulips in pink, yellow, purple, white and red,
queuing up for the March-end, spring parade –
in their assigned beds they seem as buds
when I arrive before sunrise, at seven-past.

With the soft rays of the end of winter sun –
they peek out of a blanket of cloud and smog,
then slowly open their eye-petals to light –
readying themselves, dressing for the drill.

People are by now thronging the galleries,
as little Tulip children, heads up enchantingly –
each showcases their hues strong and bold,
saluting the gallery as in a school march past.

The multi colored Tulip troops, my favourite –
their contingent at the end of the procession
towards the exit gate – burst on your sight,
with a whiff of pleasurable, ethereal delight.

It’s the opening day of the Tulip festival today,
and I’m one of the few earliest entrants –
at the Indira Gandhi memorial Tulip garden,
awaiting the Chief Minister on Srinagar’s dias.

Each tiny flower in the garden is doing its best
to showcase for a collective prospect –
it doesn’t matter how little their efforts are,
each adds to the synchronicity of Kashmir.

How does it matter that they are stagnant –
the Tulips saluting all, for photos smiling best,
as they are self assured in their frames –
for if one droops it will spoil their set stage.
.
Tulips in a ballet of light graceful movements
trained in precise, highly formalised gestures –
use pointed shoes with reinforced toes,
of excellent behind-the-scenes management.

Then rows of fountains slowly come to life,
water spurting in them is as music in my mind: I’m viewing the water-ballet of lithe Tulips –
the tall fountains, maestros of the symphony.

— Shuvashree/
25th March, 2025.

PS: this day, I was to be in Chandigarh all day long, and could have attended the ongoing Literary fest there. I changed my tickets just a day before, paid the huge difference, and chose to be at the Tulip festival in Srinagar instead. As a writer, I don’t gravitate towards being seen at the right places, but lean to my inspirations, mostly nature.

Sharing the photos here: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1FhMP9P7Ac/?mibextid=wwXIfr
The video clips at the end, give you an essence of the place in the misty morning.

#tulipgardenkashmir #tulipseason #poetrylovers #visualpoetryphotography #poetrylovers #poetrycommunity #artist #poetslife #novelist #authorlife #visualpoetry #photography #painting

‘Act like a Lady – don’t Think like a Man’: A very Happy Woman’s Day.

‘Act like a Lady — don’t Think like a Man’: A very Happy Woman’s Day.

As a woman, in a patriarchal society —
I have driven my life’s independent thoughts
as a shepherd steers flocks of sheep —
through mountainous terrains of Ladakh
I have gazed at, recently driving up.

Past meadows fresh, through green woods,
how my sheep of lively thoughts, do stroll —
feeding off on camaraderie, in comfort zones
they tend to run amok, gaily getting lost —
feeling safe, secure, and one with the world.

When scared, hesitant in rain on rocky terrain,
restricted by community’s captious norms —
it is my soft, persistent voice of reason
that cajoles fearful thoughts back on track.

I remind myself, my flock of sheep-thoughts, wounded and weary by the hands of time
from resistance of jealousies and criticism —
must resuscitate at rivulets, fountains of time.

As I still have a long circuitous path to climb,
from where if I persist to reach my goals —
I would become a beacon of light to the world.

Many joined me on my mountainous lifetrek,
leaving my track when descent was sharp —
not accepting my choices or my worldviews,
where in smog they couldn’t see my path.

But illumined with inner vision, I saw a skyline
so with determination I continued the climb.

It was, mounting a horse, Self Motivation,
I reined fearful wavering sheeplike thoughts,
by chasing them with a purposeful gallop —
driven by my vision of an ordained path,
that’s veneered by values imbibed lifelong.

To be a loving, nurturing self assured woman, well turned out, thus pleasing to the eye —
in aging gracefully with dignified charm,
yet heard and respected for an astute mind.
Be bold, passionate, independent yet strong,
without need to act like an unempathetic man!
— Shuvashree( Photos from August 2024)

#womensday #internationalwomensday #women #womenempowerment #womensupportingwomen #iwd #happywomensday #womenpower #march #love #womeninbusiness #girlpower #woman #strongwomen #womenempoweringwomen #fashion #feminism #womeninspiringwomen #instagood #instagram #womenshistorymonth #womensrights #womensdayspecial #womenday #womenstyle #happyinternationalwomensday #marzo #festadelladonna #feminist #womens