Veekends is a platform for eco-tourism, which has partnered with UN to create a set of guidelines to map the ecological foot print of each resort. They then rate the properties and certify them depending upon whether they meet all the criteria.
The Alipore Post is thrilled to have collaborated with Veekends on a poetry + art travel edition. Read the poems we loved reading that transport us, and the original artworks we commissioned in response to these thought-provoking poems:
Artwork by Anarya
Sore Feet by Rohan Bhasin
Wander.
Wander till your heels swell up;
Wander till your feet bleed out;
Wander till you can walk no more.
'Cause it' s better to have tired feet
than a tired soul.
Art by Padma
conjunctions by Mrinal Kalita
In my old city,
the 72 year old sweeper whom I like to address as Rahim Sahab
is performing his duties
so he can quietly recline to his makeshift lodging
at the end of the day,
located at the foot of one of the rare willow trees found in my city,
where he also nestles a stray dog
so he can have someone to come back to,
but most times, he does not recognize the forest track back to his tree,
so he remembers the last road bend that he must get off from
by the milepost that says Guwahati is 87 kilometres away
(most times, I also like to imagine that that is where he comes from
and that maybe he has a little daughter waiting for his return)
the next morning, Rahim Sahab continues his routine
and the stiff edges of his broom
scratch against the tar of city streets
to wake the IT intern
newly renting a single room at Laitumkhrah,
and he has remembered
how this sweeper almost always arrives at 8 A.M. everyday
and it is time for him to have his morning smoke,
at the cigarette shop, he learns the air of my city
and remembers it as his mother’s cold eyes—
six months later,
the intern carries Rahim Sahab to another city
only as an odd memory and watches it slowly decompose
every morning that he is woken up
without the sound of footsteps and stiff edges of a broom
to tell him it is 8 A.M.
In the single room that the intern vacated in Laitumkhrah,
he left behind the red semi-transparent ashtray
that the new resident now discovers
on the window sill, and uses as her own—
every morning, at 8 A.M.
she is almost always awoken by a stray dog howling
and remembers it is time for her morning smoke,
at the cigarette shop, she learns the air of my city
and remembers it as seasons dying in her backyard
as if hoping to be eulogized—
she returns to her room, fleshes out her imagination
and begins to paint, starting from the backdrop
travelling inwards to the last detail of ash
in the cigarette burning between fingers
of what she thinks the last resident would look like smoking;
later, she laughs at herself
for painting an absence
she has never encountered
It is January when I return to my city
and the willow tree across the milepost
that says Shillong is 13 kilometres away
has now been cut down,
but I imagine Rahim Sahab has finally gone back to his daughter
except the dog he once nestled looks like every street dog now
and without Rahim Sahab, he does not exist anymore—
at the cigarette shop,
a madwoman tells me she wants to paint me holding a cigarette
I say, if only I can write a poem about you,
and at this moment,
I learn the air of my city
and remember it as the place
where memory comes to die
Art by Goku
a poem for the thrice-displaced Bhil tribe by Pranietha Mudliar
dream of homes built from sticks and stones
I carry songs of sunny days, seedlings, and my favorite goat
I run home from school, uncaring about my verbs and nouns
I have a home to build that stands steady on slippery ground
While I walk, I dream of walks that never end
Sitting atop my father, he never paused even on a bend
There was the blinding Indian sun and one long shiny road
Now when I'm asleep, my earth still moves and flows
In a dream I hear the roar of the voracious river
When it swallowed my old home, I get a shiver
At school I climb higher and higher on faraway trees
To see my new home and sway in the reassuring breeze
Art by Shikhar Gaur
The Stars Understand by Dhruvi Modi
A pregnant moon threatens
to drop on my head tonight,
and I wonder if that is how
it amassed all its craters and
pockmarks. I trace the Canis Major
with a bony finger - Sirius quivering
in and out of sight - and trace
Pollux and Castor, bound together
for eternity (do you think they still love
each other?) and wave hello to
Orion the Hunter who flaunts his trendy
cummerbund. Tonight, Leo's might
is outshined by the Moon's brilliant
light, though I'm sure he understands –
the stars understand, I believe,
that there is enough space
for them all to shine.
Art by Tanya Timble
First Flush by Ishan Sadwelkar
curtained by sudden steam the window wears
a new robe and watches tea become
tea like the way it must be brewed, consistent
and fragrant like the memory of a former flame’s
lips wrestling to confine yours, fermenting
into moist responses and the aroma
of collective breath, the thrilling occurrence of teeth,
eyes viewing surfaced inner ordeals; rising vapour
breathes its own story
into an air now recoloured, the culprit –
Darjeeling first flush, astringent enough to
cut the blandness of its light body, it rivers
down your insides like the rain you opened
your mouth to at age seven, your arms caught just
the essential – nothingness and futureless joy