My this telomeri, telomeri di !

 
A friend recently posted this . 

And I need to applaud. Wildly.  Perhaps poetically. 

But first a word about telomeres. ...

Our genes/chromosomes replicate during cell division , which is what growth is all about. Many times , in the process, the ends of the chromosome/gene strings or DNA sequences, get corrupted or fused with neighboring strings (just like stitching two ends of cloth together, reduces the length of stuff), and this changes the nature of our chromosomes in unpredictable ways, causing various health problems, Big C etc.
 
But nature has gifted us with telomeres which are buffer spaces at the end of the chromosome/gene string, which face this, without allowing a mess up in the length and composition of the actual DNA/chromosome string.

My friend, You are really, your own telomere!


Some chromosome and DNA strings,
like misguided kids
who idolize goons,
try to replicate badly,
messing up the surroundings
in dangerous ways....

But not
if you are your own telomere,
straightening out
the genes
commanding them to behave,
sometimes
by
a chemo storm,
and sometimes
through the
lightening of radiation;
but almost always
and mostly
by exercising
those genes that
sing out
loud and clear,
"I can, I must, and I will"....

Yes,
every storm
tangles with dark clouds,
and every gale
bends some tough backs,
but only
a few,
straighten up again,
brush off the sand,
squeeze away
the depressing drops,
and look upon the jungle
of
collapsed tree branches,
as something
that
helps you climb up,
smile at the Sun
in a new dawn,
and sing
at the Top of your voice,
"My this telomeri, telomeri di !"

Waiting....

My blogger friend, Braja Sorenson is an author,poet,yogini,spiritualist and photographer, who lives in Mayapur, West Bengal.   This at the confluence of the Jalangi tributary of the river Ganga, near Navdvip.
 
Braja has posted this wonderful visual in her blog, Braja's India. 



Mayapur is reachable by boat across the river.  Although certainly not the type shown here.  But it makes you more appreciative of river transport of varying types. Not necessarily having to do with masses.

And possibly having to do with a old wizened fisherman, much like his boats, who drifts along the Jalangi to catch fish; sometimes to sell, sometimes to eat.

I sense a poignant parallel between him and the boats...

(photograph by Braja Sorenson)

Shoals of fish
flowing
with the tributary
to wash their sins
in the Ganga...

He sits,
fourscore and more
lined with age,
rich with hair silver,
bobbing
sensing the net pull
as he
struggles to get the catch
of the day.

Sometimes
the other boat
she comes along;
....
Younger in age
but looks older,
lines of age and slog
held together
by firm beliefs.

On a good day,
the fish sit with her.

On other days,
she just watches the fish,
as they bypass her
to reach the Ganges
for a newer life
in a bigger world.

The fisherman sighs.

This is
much like his kids,
who have gone
to Kolkata,
to a newer life
in a bigger world,
leaving him and his wife
deeply lined
in worry beside him,
sitting
in aged desolation,
awaiting them
on the sands
of time.

Dark Chocolate

FB allows you to see many wonderful photos taken by so many photographers, amateur and professional, simply because some folks are friends of FB friends. It is another matter that so many of your friends on FB are folks you have never met , but you actually think you know, from seeing and following their work , in albums, blogs etc.

This is a wonderful sunset photo from Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, clicked by Kiran Mohan , who is actually a friend of a friend, Joshi Daniel  (who has figured earlier on this poetry blog)  but is also now my friend  :-))

This week has been one for writing about cakes and poetry . Like here.

Now one more ......

(photograph by Kiran Mohan)

Molten beach waves
pulled by thick sand,
mixed
richly with
seashells and secrets
and sometimes
some unwanted additives,
baking slowly
on a hot day
slowly getting
browned
on a chocolate evening
under a
subsiding point filament Sun....

Soon the
baked sea
will leave the sides of the beach,
and sit back
leaving
unpaired footwear,
and coconut shells
strewn
where it once was.....

Horse Sense

My FB friend, and extremely versatile photographer Sanjeev Hirudayaraja lists this photograph clicked by him at the Lea Valley Riding Centre, London, as a absolute favourite.

These two must have been really preoccupied with worries about some important concerns in their lives,  to be unaware of someone creeping up close to click them.

I hear someone saying the  Z -word, which implies that you dont have to be in horse kicking distance, and can use Zoom.

I prefer to speculate about the worries troubling these two, that gets them so preoccupied with each other....

(photo by Sanjeev Hirudayaraja)   

And his folks said
"Smart, handsome
fair,
white,
race-course returned, 
super qualified.
tall equine catch,
seeks
beautiful,
very fair,
stable-loving,
slim, tall,
mare,
from a "cultured"
setup;
trainer no bar....."

But he met
an amazing golden filly,
who flew
like the wind
and cantered
alongside him after meals
sharing sugar cubes.

The two,
at the end
of a strenuous running day,
catching breaths together,
sharing the trauma,
so typical
in the world of bipeds today....

The insistence
and the misconception
by his folks
that
Fair is Lovely.

The Golden one
has just realized
that
someone must fight,
and that
Silence is never Golden....

Two hearts.....

My blog and FB friend Kavita Saharia of Guwahati, in the North Eastern state of Assam in India, participates in a Friday blog ritual called "This moment ".

As she says " A single photo — no words — capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember."  This is what you post on a Friday; no words, but just a photograph that has touched you.


This is something she posted today.   


Those who are no good at photography, must often make do with words.


(photograph by Kavita Saharia)

Clutching
his best friend
close,
he quietly bends
to rub
his running nose
against his fingers,
as he runs
down the path
to the fields.

He has seen his ma
carrying his baby brother so.

Somewhere
below a tree
she unwraps
the rotis and onions,
and sets out another plate
as she watches him
arrive,
eyes bright,
the pup against his heart....

Tough Majesty

A wonderful vignette of multicultural Mumbai from my blog and FB friend Slogan Murugan also known as M. S.  Gopal, who specializes in spotting sociological images and stories from Mumbai .

A festival celebration, possibly amidst the trader community , resplendent in all the finery, it is fairly routine to see such a motorized chariot waiting next to you at the signal.

 One has been witness to elephants lumbering besides purring Mercedes's with tinted windows, as well as charioteers in old jeans,  in empty silver decorated chariots, rushing with undue haste for an assignment at some festival, taking a smart U turn at some signal..

This is a photograph clicked in the Pydhonie  part of downtown Mumbai. 

In case you wonder why everyone looks so serious and possibly angry, it might possibly have to do with  the significant name on the shop on the left of the photograph.


 (photo by Slogan Murugan)

Aaj ke Raja Log
on a Power Drive,
tough,
with a "Ki Jai"
roaring in the mind,
ladies-in-"permanent"-waiting
empowered on the side
riding through
the entrails of Mumbai
at 73 Rs a litre

The fellow
without headgear
kicks into top gear
as he smartly accelerates
next to the Yuvraaj..

Kasab** on the sidelines.

Tough angry looks from the King
as the dowager folks
behind
turn to look
at what the world is coming to today...

**Kasab : the lone terrorist arrested for 26/11 

The Jealous Lunch

There is nothing more traumatic  (for  someone sitting on the top floor of an apartment complex, on a burning noon  in Mumbai, with no airconditioning, a tired ceiling fan, and a roasting room, )  than seeing pictures  of warm brownies, ice cold vanilla icecream, and a great chocolate sauce, and someone mentioning that they are having that as lunch !

My blogger friend Sangeeta Khanna  posted this picture on Facebook. She is not a mean person at all, but for a moment, a whole bunch of folks must have thought so.....

A warm brownie, a jug of sauce, and a dollop of icecream,  and tons of jealous friends  unable to share it    :-(     :-))

(STOP PRESS !  Omar Khayyam changes his mind :  Modifies his requirements from loaf of bread and jug of wine to the above ! .....:-)....)

(photograph and eats  by Sangeeta Khanna )

Languid in
folds of
liquid chocolate,
under a blanket of vanilla,
she rests;
fresh from a
warm oven bath,
breathing in the aroma
looking up at
the lady
poised to
tilt the jug....

A few rivulets of
chocolatey tears,
flowing down the sides,
and the lady relents
and keeps
the jug aside.

It's time
for the silver spoon
and the brownie to
finally meet
and rise
and watch the
delight
in the lady's eyes.....

Sheet Observances.......

Blog friend Braja Sorenson, who is settled in the sylvan environs of Mayapur-on-the-Ganga  after sojourns in Australia, New Zealand,  and who describes herself as an author, spiritualist, yogini, poet and photographer, posted this wonderful photograph on both her blogs, Lost and Found in India   and  Braja's India.  

With a wonderful quotation from Rumi.

For some folks immersed in the daily semi-spiritual process of living far away amidst urban nitty gritty matters,  this visual spawned some different thoughts.  And one is amazed at the persona that one imagines, just from a picture of crossed trouser-clad feet,   resting on what looks like an observant bed sheet.

(photograph by Braja Sorenson)

Some feet
of the ages
protected,
massaged,
shod in coverings,
"smooth as silk"
maintained
by exfoliation
in an idle life.
The bedsheet is not impressed.
The candidate has no initiative.

Some feet,
of the ages,
having climbed up
in the world
on a tough staircase;
Sometimes in bad footwear,
Some cuts, some hurts,
but treated in time,
the feet showing signs
of the traversing
through dark alleys.
The bed sheet respects, and
offers a cool soft support....

Some feet
of the ages,
still trudging on bare skin,
pulling life's handcarts,
loaded with young and geriatrics;
The heat sears the sole,
deadening feeling;
but not in the heart
and the soul...
There is no time and place
to rest back
and put the feet up.

The bed sheet searches,
unsuccessfully ,
finds no feet
to support and wrap;
And notices,
just a small toe-ring
that rolls away
glinting in the noon day Sun.

The Stony Melting Heart.........

My young blogfriend Pri who has a wonderful blog called Nostalgic Moments, recently wrote a wonderful story about a fight between a stone statue and a wax statue.

 Do read her wonderful and poignant  post "In wax and stone lies a story known..."

Reading meanings into the story commensurate with one's age was an interesting exercise for me. 

And then read the take below, of someone, who as they say, has seen a lot more summers  transform into autumn and winter, only to blossom in spring again....

Inside
every stone statue
that stands
unrelenting,
getting eroded
by
wordy deeds
and
katabolic acts,
is a soft nucleus
flooded lachrymally.

It just takes
some,
a long long time
to reach it.

All around,
reincarnations in wax
sculpt visions,
manic swinging between
tearful melts
and
new lives.

It takes
a shuddering shaking
and quaking
in the depths
of the earth,
for both to realize
that
they are ,
at the end of the day
a little bit of each other,
and beholden
to the same roots...

Black and white balance....

My blogger and FB friend Ganesh Balaraman , posted some great pictures from a trip to Mahablipuram, near Chennai (southern part of India). Besides the sea, and the sunsets and the sculptures , he has posted an amazing picture of a guinea fowl, that was possibly taking the air, somewhere in the grounds of his hotel.

With this amazing plumage,  these folks are often taken for granted on farms.  They move around eating up insects and even seeds of weeds. Once in a while, like any humans, they do get attracted to things like tomatoes growing on trees etc. The eggs they lay are a bit smaller than the eggs laid by the standard hen, and like any typical mother,  the guinea-hen always knows when someone other than she and her mate have touched the eggs. They are subject to being chased by dogs etc, and are blamed for the terrible sound the produce as they communicate their feelings.  Somewhere in between a chicken and a turkey in importance,  some unscrupulous folks pass them off as chicken meat in restaurants.

But they are old style simple folks. So much so, that they are a monogamous breed, and they actually mourn the demise of a spouse.

(photo by Ganesh Balaraman)
They are criticised,
Their call-noise abhorred,
as they strut around
the farm,
picking and devouring
insects and weed-seeds
sometimes
straying into the tomatoes too.

A middle class ethic.

An acceptance of color,
with
equal amounts
of white and dark,
no hankering
after
Fair and Lovely,
and Glowing Complexions,
as the white pearls shine
on the black feathers.

An acceptance of Fate,
and Karma,
as some of them
land up as some one's
pseudo-chicken meal
in a fancy hotel in Mahabalipuram...

The male's voice is a shriek
as he walks away
with a strut
and an arched back
blooming in importance.

The SAHM female,
pleads with a call
resounding as
"Come Back, Come Back".....

And unlike the
modern biped
who unheeding and careless,
plays the field,
this male returns back
to live again
with his lady wife,
to grow 
and
to mourn each other
in their old age.


Amazingly,
the Guinea fowl,
unlike the humans,
are monogamous folks....