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Mumbai

Our journey from Mumbai Airport to our hotel on Marine Drive was a wonderful reintroduction to India, and reminder of the sensory overload that Indian cities bring to the world.   That peculiar smell of somewhere new: heat, spice, diesel,  The pleasant heat of morning promising more heat to come, Traffic stretching to infinity through the coach windscreen, The constant cacophony of horns, scooters weaving between lines Drivers helmeted, their one or two passengers bare-headed, Yellow and black taxis jousting their little brothers the auto rickshaws, Buzzing around and between, busy bees searching the quickest route. The garish vibrancy of giant hoardings, buildings, glaring neon signs, The urgency of roadside shops offering all types of goods and services, The blue tarpaulin-covered slums making way for new reclaimed land. The dark of a tunnel waves a magic wand; the other side Emerges swathed in morning mist. New skyscrapers shine beside  The decaying splendour of a...
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Blur of life

One of the things I enjoy about travelling is not so much the marvelous monuments and tourist sights we are travelling towards,  but what passes by the coach window on the way.  This is the real India, quietly going about its life while we sit and stare.   Travelling past our window, a sea of blurred impressions: Parched grass, tiny hedged fields, haystacks of drying rice, Brick huts, tin roofs weighted with rocks or gathered wood,  High-stilted shelters from the sun stand lookout across the fields,  Towards orange-flowered hedges bordering the road.  Brightly painted houses in the towns like a child's paintbox, Blues, yellows, reds, greens, purples shouting for attention, Corrugated tin awnings balanced on bamboo or metal poles, Ads on side walls: JK Super Cement, Build Safe, Build Strong, Building work everywhere, new extensions, new houses, Piles of bricks neatly stacked in between for future projects, Everything covered in the road's rich red dust....
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Perfect match

There was a wedding at the hotel where we stayed in Kajuraho. It was an event of excesses - 250 guests decked out gorgeously in coordinated colours - yellow for the afternoon,  pinks and oranges for the evening to match the decor of the separate venues. The music was loud, everywhere was decorated with swathes of silk and huge swags of flowers.  It must have cost a fortune.  Only the best for our pride and joys Our Riya and Prinjal, apples of our eyes: No cost too much, no holding back. One venue in yellow, gold and white for the day, One pinks, greens and oranges for the night, Pinks and purples, greens for the second day. (We'll need at least four outfits in matching hues   In silks, brocades, embroidered in gold, Each man will need four turbans,  Jackets with embroidered collars.) An aisle ten feet wide and sixty feet long For guests to make their entry Under vibrant silks and flowers. Let the music be loud:    Why only two drummers when you ca...
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Clear blue pool

I've enjoyed a couple of swims in swimming pools since we've been in India.  It didn't seem so strange at the Mumbai Trident Hotel, but it felt very privileged to do it here in Kanha National Park. We shriek at the cold In the clear blue pool Less than a mile from wells Where women gather at dawn and dusk To draw their water.  No wonder they stand and stare At our exotic white faces; How strange it must seem To take a clear blue pool for granted.  © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Haiku on the never quenched hope of sighting a tiger

Hours in jolting jeeps Fuel dreams of tiger sightings; Each morning the same. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Kanha Dawn

We're in India,  and have enjoyed two early dawn Jeep safaris so far.  It's simply magical how night gradually transforms into day.   Milky webbed threads coat the grassland As the light thins out the dawn-pulled sky, And the dark thickens into forest. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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Radio Times

Another notebook find - a poem sketched out two years ago, charting the changes in my radio listening habits over the years.     On teenaged Friday evenings Illicit charts on pirate radio Eased me into a funky disco mood As I teased bubbles into soft peaks. Late nights in digs Contentedly alcohol-hazed,  The Shipping Forecast sailed me away Amongst wave tangled sheets. Afternoons alone in our first house Baby safe with her Nan, I danced to Radio 1, cigarette in hand, Among trestle table, paper and paint. Early morning commutes  Worrying what the day might hold,  Dreaming of a better life  To the honeyed voice of Terry Wogan. These lazy afternoons,  Decaffeinated coffee soothes  As I spend my days in the company Of plays, podcasts, and poetry. © Copyright 2025. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved
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