Eastern Vagabond

Essays on travel, cities, memory, and the unnoticed textures of the world.

Tag: sunset

  • Cooling Vesuvius

    Having a cup of tea with you

    in a ramshackle dhaba by the road

    reminds me of Frank O’ Hara’s iconic poem,

    ‘Having a Coke with You.’

    The cold dusk has just fallen

    upon the October Himalayan mountains

    casting their shapeless silhouettes against a lavender sky,

    and upon us

    as we hold our cups

    over the glittering city of Muzaffarabad

    and gaze into the darkening cirrus afar,

    a new moon rising above them and the majestic North star,

    reflecting on the beauty of this fleeting moment.

    The gray steam rising from our porcelain cups

    merges in the condensation of our winter breaths

    creating patterns envied by

    jet contrails and shooting stars.

    The metallic road by our side

    snakes up to the shrine of the Saint of Chinasi

    reminding me of a similar road in Naples

    that leads up to Mount Vesuvius’ top

    whose raging volcano once buried

    the debaucherous Pompeii alive.

    Perhaps you think

    that in our three years of togetherness,

    we have slowly cooled off

    just like Vesuvius

    that the bustling Naples

    no longer takes seriously as a threat

    even though the geologists still call it ‘active’.

    What good is an active volcano after all

    that nobody dreads, you might think?

    Likely to blow its top or not, I think

    Vesuvius is still Vesuvius

    towering solemnly over the Naples’ shore

    along the still waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea

    in no need to erupt in ash and flames

    every now and then to prove its power.

    Either that or may be

    you are right after all –

    we have transformed

    from ardent lovers to really good friends.

    I don’t mind if it’s true, in fact,

    I really like it better.

    Don’t you?

  • A Canvassed Dusk

    “Do you see the red line floating across the golden ball of sun? This thin streak that splits it into perfect halves like a neatly cut melon?” He fell silent contemplating the moment, the texture, the rich acrylics.

    “Can you imagine what was it that she thought, that her brush dipped in red ripped through the heart of the sun, and it must not have taken a single stroke, you see. She must have swept it twice. Or thrice maybe, for that matter. Do you know what exactly makes a fragile brush in a delicate, feminine grip stab and rip and tear like that?”

    “No.”

    “I don’t either but it must be something really intense. Something that has set the sky ablaze, the wild grass crimson, the lake murky, the kayaks fluttery and the sailors, silhouettes against a scarlet sky.”