By: Mitali Chakravarty

Ah! To Write like Ruskin

I feel I cannot write.
Words don’t fall into place.
I have no stories to tell.

Ruskin Bond writes so well.
His words touch my heart
so I can cry. My words feel dry.

The anguish I feel is deep within.
I wish I could bond like Bond
with tear-wrenching words.

Or, make you laugh with
eggless omelettes and python
tales, make you feel my words.

But my words shrink in pain.
How can I then write again?
On the inside, I weep like rain.

(This poem is dedicated to Ruskin Bond, who is turning 92 years old on May 19, 2026. Born on May 19, 1934, the renowned Indian author continues his prolific writing career from his home in Landour, Mussoorie.)

Delhi

Belching smoke, Delhi stands.
Asphyxiating wombs,
It’s hard to breathe. Life goes on.

This city weeps, wheezes and splutters.
It’s chest cries congestions. I do not
know if bad air is climate change.

But the climate has changed.
It’s 50 degrees in summer!
And the Yamuna froths polluted foam.

Fifty years ago, this city had blue skies.
This city did not cry. In spring,
Lutyens gardens bloomed.

Now gardens wilt erasure of names.
Pragati Maidan under cement weeps
the loss of lawns that wove dreams.

Cows still resisting sit unmoved
on Delhi roads. They were.
They are. They will forever be.

###

Mitali Chakravarty wafts on a cloud where rests borderlessjournal.com. She’s widely published in print and online. Her most recent poems have appeared in Impspire, Lothlorien Journal, Piker Press, Poppy Road Review and Fixator Press. Her latest book of poems is From Calcutta to Kolkata: City of Dream. She has edited three anthologies, the most recent being Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems.