The Great Arc of Stone in the indigo height, Where the sun-fire dies in the marrow of night, The Himalayas, in their white, sepulchral sleep, Guard what the centuries buried beneath the deep. And Love is the shadow that walks on the crest, A pilgrim…
Beyond Chowari Jot, where the deodars climbed toward the sky and the Pir Panjals carried snow like memory, we walked through meadows so wide they made silence feel endless. The afternoon unfolded slowly — your hand in mine, wildflowers gathered carelessly between us, sunlight moving…
The roads near Corbett curved like they had nowhere urgent to be, slipping quietly through sal forests older than memory and taller than thought. Mornings arrived in silver fog. The trees stood half-hidden, their branches dissolving into mist while the world slowly remembered its shape.