A wilderness that won’t let you get lost!

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There is a beautiful reserved forest area in north Delhi, a wild area that has been caged within the national capital city-state of Delhi. Although it’s usually too crowded by commuters and university students, the Kamala Nehru Northern Ridge still in its vastness provides you the joy of solitude, if you take the road less trodden on. I can assure you, in this wilderness you will not get lost!

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The Park at “Spring’s Garden”

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Rusted leaves and brazen tree trunks,

Sooty boar tusks and fur dripping muck.

Cows walk amidst humans here,

Where squirrels too can give away a fright,

To scare off a big fat girl in red shorts,

To gather up her clothes and scream and run.

Then suddenly an old kite hunts down a lazy dove,

Relishes in with a cannibal smugness,

Its new prey’s flesh, while the rest of its flock,

Watches and flaps from afar, too dazed to act.

Then nearby, a girl with punk-style headphones,

Stamps her feet to the earth,

Puffing out a miniature sphere of dirt.

When I see her extracting a little red camera,

I figure, maybe, she’s an amateur photographer,

And she missed the most spectacular shot.

A kite tearing  out the entrails of that innocent dove.

I smile a little, wanting it badly to tell her:

Next time, leave your music at home or get a wireless.

More distractions for me. More people I see.

Here and there, somewhere into the deeper woods,

Where it’s too dark for the sunshine to peep thro’,

Show-off lovers fake their rendezvous,

Sometimes, holding, sometimes leaving hands.

Sometimes holding shiny, pricey techie baubles,

Tattooed with a half-eaten apple, which can’t even be eaten.

Faking the love, faking the passions, even their kisses,

Which is nothing but a pseudo status symbol,

Of some non-existent phase they think they’ve crossed.

I wonder to myself, these twosomes, threesomes,

Handsome people. How can they even for once think,

Turning a back to the world means the world won’t see you?

Well, it’s their problem, I tell myself, not mine!

Under the cover of the dry, barren trees’ shade,

Joggers, in their suits and tracks, slog around,

Hoping to water the dry, dry grass,

With their drops of sweat that fell on the ground.

The rusted leaves and the brazen tree trunks,

Remain standing, like they have, all along.

With no one to water them,

No one to sweep the leaves to a grave for once.

Parched in the want to be remembered and restored,

The old park stands firm in its wait.

Unlike the red humane benches of concrete,

Lives of the wooden trees can’t crumble away.

Maybe there’s another reason for this:

They’re green. Not red.

Yet.

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And I too cannot sympathize.

I am  as well dressed all in red. Inside and out.

So I just leave. The Spring’s Garden,

Like a winter’s desert, still gasping for a tempest.