DK Kapila The Oracle

I parked my car at the of the T junction at my home town. Now totally bereft of close relatives but still my home town, always my home town. My great grandfather had worked there as amongst the first officials of the Punjab Education Service in 1920’s. My grandfather had constructed a house there in 1932, six years after my father was born. A sprawling old style haveli (a mansion with a mix of western and Indian styles of construction). The T junction I had parked on was exactly opposite my home, or what was once my home. There were a flood of emotions in me, the façade had changed, as I walked along one side, other changes came to be noticed. But I was not really noticing, my mind was only remembering what it chose to, laughter, stories of ghosts on chilly foggy nights, food shared with joy and cheer by innumerable relatives on holidays, I only remembered those voices and sounds. For me it was as though I walked amongst them again. I dared not to look in as I feared it would wound m...

                                        (Appeared in The Tribune 02 / 02 / 1996) My father hails from a small town in Punjab, the headquarters of the orchards cum gardens district. Its small size made the town quite an informal place. In this town was our ancestral house – a large old style imposing mansion with huge iron gates, one grand entrance gate being hand carved beautifully, huge walls, innumerable staircases and high ceiling rooms.   Summer holidays were always meant for going home from wherever Dad was posted in the army, exploring the rooms, browsing through the huge library, running around the trees and taking long walks in the cool evenings with the Shivalik ranges clearly visible. But slowly the house was emptying. My grandparents were no more and the huge house now had only a few permanent occupants – my aunt, uncle and cousins. Our visits continued,...

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) ===========================================================================