DK Kapila The Oracle

The Pipes of Bakloh (Printed in The Tribune Sept 1, 1999) .                                                                                                         Dinesh K Kapila Most people would not have heard of Bakloh, it’s a small hill station, essentially a cantonment, on the road from Pathankot to Dalhousie. Just off Tatapani, a narrow steeply winding road takes one to Bakloh. Not very high, a quaint little cantonment, with the old British era churches still intact...

Down Madhumati Road Dinesh K. Kapila (The Tribune Feb 23,2002) As you drive towards Shimla from Chandigarh, a road sign on the highway passing through Chandimandir cantonment states “Madhumati Road”. Few would know why this name is on the board except may be that it’s the name of a large river in Bangladesh. For me, passing by the road sign gives a feeling of familiarity and pride, for the road sign signifies a hard-fought victory of the 1971 war by the 62 Mountain Brigade. One battalion of the 7th Brigade also performed the important function of a road block in this battle. Someday I plan to stand my children by the roadside for a photograph, for I want them to remember what their grandpa achieved 30 years ago. The children are yet small but I am sure they understand what I explain to them. For it was Dad who commanded the 62 Mountain Brigade in this battle. The Army observes Victory Day and Infantry Day every year, but for my father such occasions are for remembering fallen...

Do look at him. Old and beaten, By the hounds of cruel fate, Physically, broken, Half blind, hunch backed, Seemingly ashamed of his Half naked body. His spiritual ruin Has now begun, he begs, He cries piteously, Some grains of shame remain, Slowly, silently they Will be blown away. Then he will belong, To that derelict wreck Of society, which we Form by our callousness, He will be called a beggar By us, And a destitute on A numbered government file, In an imposing government office. (Composed by Dinesh K Kapila) =============================================================================== (Sector 17 is the commercial hub of Chandigarh for those who do not know) ================================================================================

Once in Cheerapunji, On a rocky outcrop, A rainy misty day, As I stood, The monks did sing, Their voices mellow and deep, The hymns did sound heavenly, The words echoed, resounded, Divine and ethereal, A soul stirring chant. The world hidden, In a curtain of mist, It was me Me alone and the haunting Soul stirring vedic hymns, Transfixed, awestruck, The moments mine and mine alone, Locked away in the inner Recesses of my mind, Forever. (Composition Dinesh K Kapila)

Loneliness, Crying out soundlessly, Into the desolateness around. Intermingling with the shadows, Floating across on the rays Of the setting sun, Merging in the night, Dark thoughts, dark feelings, A whirlpool of emotional Ups and downs, churning, Endlessly, relentlessly. A feeling of acute separation, From near and dear, Standing alone, starkly, silently, As does the tree, Shorn of leaves, The bare branches thrust Into the vast sky. Thoughts here, thoughts there, Thrust into the murky Depths of the mind, No meaning, no answers, Just a wearied mind, An aching body, Restless sleep. (composed by Dinesh K Kapila) ===========================================================================

The Crow in my watertank.(written in 1999, now creating a soft copy) A classic one liner at a restaurant is “waiter, there is a fly in my soup”. Atleast in a restaurant only the soup bowl has to be changed with profuse apologies of the management. But in my case, what do you do, when you find a dead crow in your water tank, it’s a totally different scenario. The tank on the roof, made of cement on a platform, reaching the cemented covers a bit of a bother, then the roof accessible by a ladder, me always been around the outer limits of weight, well the scenario would be unfolding itself !. God knows when the damn crow went for a sip of water, perched on the edge of the tank and decided drowning was a better option. It chose to drown by wriggling through the narrowest of gaps left by me, so as to check the water levels in the dry summer months. Well, as the story goes, one Friday everybody stated that the water was stinking, I chose to ignore it. After all it was for me and our jeev...

This is certainly not a piece for Valentine’s Day but then here goes. I was on the Shatabdi Express from Chandigarh to New Delhi on Monday morning. An ungodly (for me atleast) time of 0653 hours we departed from Chandigarh. As is usual the newspapers were distributed, tea served and the passengers gradually settled down. Right behind me were a young man and woman (gentleman and lady if you will). Both seemed to be in their late twenties. Gradually they got talking – as did most youngsters on the train. Incidentally, with jobs lacking in Chandigarh, most youngsters with qualifications head to New Delhi / Noida / Gurgaon for jobs now a days, the train indicated the truism. Now the young man and woman. The woman was fluent in English, the guy less so, they carried on talking about bosses, the train, the cost of commuting, the quality of breakfast etc. They could have been friends for ages, the way they just carried on all the way to Kurukshetra. Parents and a property dispute were ...