Two is better than one

In honor of the better half of our friend, who also plans to run the short marathon.....( she runs and makes payasam; as for him, well, he only runs....)


He stops
at the 30th kilometre
feet jogging
in place,
the cell phone
to his ears,
bobbing
up and down.

But
no one answers.
He frowns,
as back home,
the milk
collects together
thickening in worry,
herding the raisins
together
with the slivers
of almonds
and
pistachios.
Its cold
in the fridge,
and
they huddle together,
safe
in their sweetness.

She is not
at home;
but
at
the 37th kilometre;
waiting
for Poetic FR
(Family Resources),
to catch up.

And so
they jog
the last patch
together,
she
just a wee bit
ahead
of him.

And the pistachio
drenched in the
payasam
nudges the
slim almond
to say;
"Psst,
I told you,
She is actually
the one
with power;
the idli
just
told me yesterday,
when we
accidentally met
at Asian paints.....
canteen ....

Musing and running in great company : and I don't mean Reliance.

In honor of one of my good friends who is planning to run the marathon in the New Year....





Fingers to the keyboard;
they run,
musing,
spouting observations,
nudging,
winking,
applauding ,
wondering,
pausing
to take
a breath
with
some photos....




Now toes on to roads,
he runs,
adjusting
his number,
emblazoned in front,
as the oxygen
flows in,
enthused,
excited,
wondering
about the
fellow runners,
applauding ,
a child here,
a lady there,
a father,
running for a cause,
muscles rippling.

He shuts his eyes,
and sees the tape;
A few steps more,
and he makes it,
a great end
to a greater effort,
practicing daily.

And she smiles
and stirs the milk,
bubbling happily
in excitement
along with her;
Yes,
she promised him
payasam
for lunch.......:-)

Flowering in synergy

(photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)
The perfectly developed
advanced
philanthrophic
petals,
side by side
with
the
troubled bud
still developing,
brown spots
amidst the
pervading green.



The leaves
in their greenness
do not skimp
on facing the Sun
to make food
for all,
and oxygen
for all,
big and small.

But sometimes,
it helps,
if,
like a mother,
the big one
gives up its
portion,
to the one,
who is trying
to flower,
amidst
the troubling browns,
to get
into the pink of health

Copenhagen , anyone ?

Leafless in Seattle

Inspired by Sylvia's wonderful photo of Snow in Seattle....and dedicated to a special lady who did professional ballet, and now teaches Pilates.....

(Photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)



Ballerinas
pirouetting
starkly,
amidst the silver sands,
now
stopped
mid action,
standing on tiptoe
palms unfolding
to the sky.



Dreaming
of the days
of green
jetes
as their branches
gracefully
bowed and swished
in the cool
late summer breeze.

The Day of the Adagio
is drawing to
a close,
Water
slowly
gently
lapping
at the rooted feet,
freeing them
to live in the sun
once again

The Allegro
has started,
with a glimmer of green,
and
they shake off
the frosted
diamonds
and gracefully
bow
to the God of spring
watched by
an amused Sun.

Life's little trophies

In appreciation of this .

(Photos by Kavi)
Like a sunrise
on a winter morning,
the clean glow
and the radiance
trickles through
life's clouds.



Pewter and silver
on the shelves,
archiving
the successes
of
the now
not-so-little-ones.

A saree pallu
wiping a corner,
sometimes
of an inscription,
sometimes of an eye,
as she basks in the
home movies
in the theatre of her mind.

The phone rings,
and anticipation
turns to a smile,
as those with names
on the trophies,
call.

There is a stir
amidst the crowded cups
in the archives,
"Psst,
stand straight,
they are coming home,
I heard Amma say so"...

She puts down
the telephone,
looks up
at grandpa by the window;
He has heard,
from the look on her face,
the shining in her eyes,
the wonderful news.

Its evening,
and
the sun has set,
after a successful
traverse
across the skies,
having won its own trophies.

They try to rest,
much excited.
The archived trophies
too,
shine in anticipation;
Not for those who
got them,
but
for the
coming home
from Bengaluru,
of
the littlest trophy
in their lives......

Life Marathon

Its all in the running,
and not,
in the reaching.

Some tog up,
branded,
top to toe,
a hairband,
to keep out
non existent hair,
a smart something,
emblazoned
on a piece
of embossed acrylic
announcing,
their charity
above the heart.



Singleminded steps,
quadriceps
climbing up and down,
water drunk on the go,
flung by the wayside,
waving at friends
at the Trident,
as they turn along the sea.

And some,
run ,
a bit late to start,
rushing in from
the train station.
There were
parents to help,
children to dress,
old socks to search,
messages to give
someone
dependent on you;

They never got around
to buying
those tracks;
last years should do.....

And so they run the
Marathon of life,
the charity,
not emblazoned,
but nestled
in the heart,
supporting
a kid
waving from the sidelines,
a father,
watching them on TV,
as the mother
brings him the medicines.
They smile at the
others,
running,
walking,
helping others,
to run,
and walk.

The place at the top
is a lonely one.
And its so much
more fun,
crowding there....

Because everyone
stands, holding on
to the other,
and each one
rejoices
in the win
of the
other.....

Like I said,
Its all in the running,
and not,
in the reaching.

Yours, Mine and Ours

 (Photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)

Gardens of life,
with upright folks,
holding on closely
to what is theirs;
Counting,
sometimes their riches,
sometimes their blessings,
and
at the fall
of dusk,
locking it all away
to open
again,
on another day.




But some gardens,
are blessed with
those
who also stand upright
but
open to the world;

"What is mine
is yours too;
come partake
freely
of nature's kindness
Sip the nectar...."

And the ballerina in yellow,

smiles,

leaps,

and lands daintily,

on her toes,

amidst a

carpet of white,

bows

hands outstretched,

and says

"Thank you !"

Him and Her

A raised palm
wonders
at the responses
to it,
by those
purported
to have brains. 

Sometimes,
drunk on prestige
making contact
and impact
with a face;
who does she think she is ?

Sometimes,
wallowing in importance,
stopping her,
secretly tickled
about his ability
to dictate a NO

And a few times,
delighted,
happy
with her success
touching palms,
up there,
high fiving it,
in celebration with her….

It takes two palms
to make this,
a contented life…
and no one’s hand is higher …..

Castle building

Build
and look ahead in life....


Some
build castles
in the air
and bend
the way the wind blows.



Some build castles
on the beach,
digging
with grubby fingers,
and sand in your hair,
patting into place
a wall here
a tunnel there
a flag on a turret
decorated with shells
painstakingly collected,
and a moat
all around
to fool the
sudden wave that
that ventures there....

But the best ones
are those
built in the mind,
by you,
for someone,
who has
never seen
a beach,
and
never tasted
the salty zing
in the spray
of opportunity,
in a lopsided world.

And should
the last be your choice,
I'll be honored
to help
with the scaffolding.....

Unrecycled Garbage

On reading this post by Kavi.

(Photo by Kavi)
Some hardy horses,
righteous donkeys,
and stubborn mules,
flashing
their knowledge
of living
in a world
overpopulated
by
asses of a different kind.



They peruse
and shuffle
through
the garbage
of the modern asses;
shaking their heads,
flicking a tail
at the fly
which tries
to whisper a secret
in the ear :

"These two legged asses
throw so much
in the bin,
when
they
should actually
be carrying it
themselves,
if they need it at all....

Dont they know,
that
Life,
is like Windows
without
Recycle Bin
and the
My Garbage
is iconic
on their
so called
progressive
desktop?"

French Beans maiden century....

Nov 26, 2009 : French Beans, 100 Rs a kilo.....


Once resident
in the rich black soil
with a smattering
of white
cupped amidst a
holding green
blooming
close to earth,


the cauliflower
now sits,
third from the top.
next to the beans,
at a roadside stall
run
by the moustachiod
bhaiyya.

Ladies clamouring
for the rates,
and the french beans ,
look disdainfully
at the cauliflower,
shrugging
in superiority,
as the
bhindi and cabbage
face the searching fingers
of the desperate
worried women;

The cauliflower
has had its day.
Beans ?
The Bhaiyya,
raises an eyebrow
and glances
at the lady ...
"Rs 25 quarter kilo";
His words fall,
the prices don't
a few faces fall,
the needs don't;

Let the
beans and cauliflower
slug it out.
Some brown
hurt patches
on the latter
and the
lady says,
"Bhaiyyaji,
Its time to get back
to the spinach,
again."

Remember

A year on, today in Mumbai, Nov 26, 2009.

(Photo bu Sylvia Kirkwood)
Flowers for peace
in their minds
tormented by visions
of those so dear.


For the family
on its maiden trip
to their hometown,
shot at the terminus



For the child
who saw
his father being shot
as he responded
to a request
for water
at the door
by those
who were out
for blood

For the cab driver
who ferried
passengers
no knowing
it was his last trip

For the brave cop
who threw himself
over
and battled
the rampant terrorist
half his age,
to snatch his rifle
and died
to keep him alive
to hang
with
hopefully some others.

Do those in power
even realise
that
we celebrate
those
who best
do their duty
without
thought of reward ?

And they
"trade"
rewards,
like those
that came shooting,
killing,
exchanging their sin
for
their so called
places
in
a despairing Sun....

Cutting chai at dawn....

Cutting chai, and this post by Kavi

(photo by Kavi)
An externally darkened
alluminium
dekchi
boiling angrily
some water,
with attitude
and noise,
on a kerosene stove.


Some leaves
dedicating their aroma
to the erupting water,
sweetened with
some sugar,
all awash in
the milk
of human kindness,
as
the corner chaiwalla
gets operational
at dawn.


Opaquely clear glasses
waiting for
the nectar to pour;
he lifts and strains
the bronzed, gingered
cardamomed nectar
and pours it
cutting the stream
into two glasses...



Cutting chai,
one always shared
in two glasses,
and some smiles
shared with the
chaiwallah
as the sun appears on the scene
demanding his share....

Soliloqy in white.....

Some flower portraits are so human.....

(Photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)



Wrapped in yards
of white,
she stands
an edge
covering her head,
facing a life alone today;



Deep inside,
golden memories
rest;
shining on
the recollections
of arrivals in
bridal red,
then the little buds,
a healthy pink.
enriching branches ,
despite
occasional thorns

The colored
whorls
of experience
over the years,
fading to a white,
but
comforting her,
as a few petals drop,
but life continues
encompassing
a calm fragrance....

Wrapped in yards
of white,
she stands
yet again,
an edge
covering her head,
facing a life alone today;
but sharing
the fragrance,
with the
whole world....

Looking down, looking up...

Inspired by this photograph by Sylvia Kirkwood....

(photos courtesy Sylvia Kirkwood)




Growing tall in life
sometimes
makes invisible
those at
your feet...

When you revel
and hobnob
majestically,
at your peak,
the spray
of the waterfall
freshening
your face,
tired,
as you struggle
to enhance
your prestige




Remember
the one
who helped you cross
your bridges,
by throwing
itself across the creek...?

Dawn melody

A
sharp November dawn,
he cycles thru
the crooked path
in the midst
of the verdant fields,
the milk cans
banging in protest
as the cycle
hiccups
over a stubborn field rock.


Meditating,
emerging,
she wraps her shawl
tighter,
she waits,
breathing in
the exquisite aroma
of the ginger tea.

A whiff
of boiling milk,
copper and jasmine
honey, yogurt,
sugar, ghee
amidst
a Flutewallah
enjoying
vermillion,
conch shells,
garlands,
and
earthen oil
lights...

He stands,
crosses His right ankle
in front of the left,
and
lifts the flute
to the lips.

The Aarti over,
He watches amused
as a child
looks eagerly
at the prasad;
nods,
then raises the flute
and plays
once again,
the beautiful
Melody of Life.

Mera Bharat kahan ? ****

This , this, this and this.




He moves
hungry
amidst the trash;
dragging his torn bag
collecting
the days finds
and unravels
A crumpled paper
amidst
plastic mayhem.



Killers from jail
emerging out
for parties;
Politicians
threatening
opposition with
footwear,
while some others
rush down and slap.
Murderers on film
demanding
special food
in jail.

All confident
about another term,
another boss,
another vote,
another pat,
on the same back.

He crumples it
into a ball,
kicks it,
swatting it
with his bag....
imagining it
to be his life,
slumming
thru pointless school
and pointed threats.

He strays.
Those crooks have
what he wants.
The rest don't keep promises.
Only unaccounted assets....
Mera Bharat Mahan ?**


**** Hindi for "Where is my India ?"
** My great India !

Walking to the Beat

In response to a great post by Sucharita, on Morning walks, then and now.





Some tag along,
shoelaces open,
clutching a big finger;
skipping through
the grassy path
to the river.
And as the
sun paints the horizon,
they flop down,
lying on wet grass,
thinking
of Ma, baba, didi
and of course,
breakfast.







Today,
trainers guide the feet,
lightness,
not in the heart,
but in the shoes;
Headbands with tick marks
instead of a sari pallu
wiping the forehead;
and
two massive discs
cover the ears.

Missing out
on
the mother,
calling out with
the left lunchbox,
a wife,
reminding
about the key,
the building sweeper
his soundless
toothy smile,
and
the neighbor's dog
protesting the balcony.

The sky changes color,
so do the signals,
The fresh air
gets a whiff of exhaust;
he adjusts his headphones,
takes a deep breath,
and listens,
to someone sing,
predictably,
"Beat it !"

Smell the Coffee !

Some photos say a thousand words. Some inspire a few words, twelve thousand miles away.
A comment inspired by Sylvia's latest photopost !






A thousand busy souls
up at dawn,
stretching,
smiling,
at a dark sky
shutting off
the alarm
that says
Welcome to a new day.




And she
springs up,
warm in the kitchen,
toasting here,
boiling there,
percolating,
a few wonderful cups,
bringing a flavour
to a semi dark dawn.

Curtains apart,
she glances
at the sky
and inhales....

The aroma
of the coffee
rises
palely pink
in steam
through the sky
saying,
"Sylvia,
Good morning !
Great coffee , aint it ?"....

Sensible wonderful greening....

This wonderful photograph by Sylvia in her photopost inspired this.


(photographs by Sylvia Kirkwood)




The school
in the woods,
The green little
elementary schoolers,
crowded together
on the slope
waving
along
the path of learning.







Slightly older
taller,
middle schoolers,
hanging around,
in clumps of green,
a bit
down the slope......
The younger ones
looking expectantly
at
a possible sweet fruit
in life
as they descend
picnic style
to the sea.

But it's the
high school types,
tall lanky
and independent,
stauesquely proud,
overlooking all
and their childishness....

Till they spy
a wayward tree,
bending
under some pressure....
"hold on,
lean on me",
one says;
"you cant go astray;
We seniors
set an example,
and the little ones follow..."

Sensible greening
makes for a
wonderful life !

Fog on the mind

In reaction to a wonderful photopost by Sylvia .

(photos by Sylvia Kirkwood)

Late winter
of life,
Cloudy brain
plaques
fogging the brain;
I stand tall
and green
in the mist
In support
of those with
lost leaves....



Sometimes
I am alone,
sometimes
struggling with
others
on a woody slope
alzeimerishly....

A gust of wind
lifts the mist,
warm yellows
and browns of fall
decorating
the heights
of my mind....

And
the fence and lawn
resplendent
in shining dew,
appears familiar....

Memories flood back;
I am not alone..

Save the telomeres

Is the ability to abuse , genetic ? Why are mother-in-laws, frequently involved in daughter-in-law abuse ? And why does the son often have a silent, shameless gene? Along with a senseless abuse gene ?


(During cell division, the enzymes that duplicate the chromosome and its DNA cannot continue their duplication all the way to the end of the chromosome. If cells divided without telomeres, they would lose the ends of their chromosomes, and the necessary information they contain. The telomeres are disposable buffers blocking the ends of the chromosomes and are consumed during cell division...If telomeres do not do their stuff, there can be unpredictable mutations in genes)


Cells replicating
with abandon,
the normal gene
in his cell strand.
Telomeres
trying
to help,
patching disruption
of strands at the
end of the string.


And she watches
amazed ,
then in horror,
as
the telomeres
die,
shredding the ends,
losing
all chance of control,
methylating
the DNA
into
a mutating,
worsening,
and (enhancing
the uncontrolled
pseudo powerful)
ABUSE gene.


Telomeres,
discovered*** by women,
then
abused by women
who
keep silent
when
again,
their ,
so called "own"
women are abused.

***Elizabeth Helen Blackburn, FRS (born November 26, 1948) is an Australian born biological researcher at the University of California, San Francisco, who studies the telomere, a structure at the end of chromosomes that protects the chromosome. Blackburn co-discovered telomerase, the enzyme that replenishes the telomere. For this work, she was awarded the 2009 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine, sharing it with Carol W. Greider and Jack W. Szostak. She also worked in medical ethics, and was controversially dismissed from the President's Council on Bioethics.

Rest for troubled eyes....

Once again, inspired by this post by Sylvia.

(photographs by Sylvia)

Cloudy
elbows across
the face,
the tired Sun,
squinting
at the
hovering bird,
blocks his eyes;




Now waiting
to sink
his turbulent
mind
into the cool
ocean waters,
to start
with a clean slate
another day...

He has seen
too much,
killing,
fighting,
jeering,
destruction
on his
daily route
across
the world.....

Ups and downs

Inspired by this post from Sylvia's photo blog.

(photographs by Sylvia)

Life
rolls on,
rising,
ebbing,
waves
holding hands
through
the
infinite blue;



Some obstacles
surmounted
together
in a brilliant
cheerful spray;
the happy rocks,
bathed,
under a warm sun,
playful birds
dodging
a cool sprinkle...

Lifes
little skirmishes,
now sweeter,
and cooling down
to exultant
relaxing waves,
humoring
each other
as they roll on
to rest ,
momentarily
on the
inviting sands.

The United Colors of .....

Another beautiful photograph, from my friend Sylvia's photo-word blog

(photo, courtesy sylvia kirkwood)


Some dark,
some white,
fiery brown,
cool cream,
and every color
of this
wondrous earth;


The
staunchly united
pebbles,
enjoy the wait,
as the
water,
of the same ocean,
washes over them;
cleaning minds
and
scrubbing thoughts.

If only,
the bigger
more powerful
rocks,
listened...

Dark and light philosophy

My friend , Sylvia, has a wonderful photoblog, and this was a comment on some great photos of shadows , which were part of her Shadow Shot series....


The Sun
shooting
its warmth
meets someone
but is stopped
in surprise
in its path.


Quietly ,
head down,
it goes round
who
it has met.
To meet and
shake hands
with a shadow....

Even the sun must learn
that there is
dark and light
in life,
and the way they meet
is wonderful....

Helpless

For some, whose words fail, but whose fragrance pervades, and whose eyes speak. Praying this divali for new blossoms in some lives.


Divali,
the victory
of good over evil.

Is victory,
a cloud ,
that can bring neither rain ,
nor shady solace
to a
once blossoming mind
burning in the
dopamine heat ?



And the flower,
now a stick,
wilting,
struggling,
but still trying
to stay upright,
looks wordlessly
at the
helpless
flowers around it.

Sometimes the thorns
and the evil,
are one's own.

Padmashri Sugarcane

An inspiring post by Kavi on sugarcane juice. Thirst destroys verse-ability.

A glass of cool nectar later ......




A purple-green
lanky
piece of goods,
big , long
and narrow greens
crowning
in royal flare;



A harvest,
and a crowded trip
to a factory
where
the only thing
cooperative***
is the canes
crushing themselves
together
to a sugary end...



But a few escape
to little stalls
in cities;
a bit of extra life,
before
tired ,
stretching,
and twisting
fibrously,
they crush their
ambitions
into nectar
for thirsty humans.

A life
totally,
dedicated
to making things
sweeter,
cooler,
and satisfying
for others.

Padma*** awards, anyone ?

*** Sugar factories in India are generally sugar co0perative factories....

*** The country's high civilian awards, given every year. Sometimes more like rewards.

Flaming support

The waning
Ashwin** moon
bombed and cataracted,
as it peers
through the clouds
drips occasional
moonlight
amidst trees
through the night.




But in all
my temples,
energized
by the prayers,
a thousand
little
mud lamps,
glow in support
flickering in beat
to the
sonorous
prayers,
that ask Him
to bring
a Festival of lights
to dark minds in space.

Water happens
not when you
blast someone.
It happens
when
you collect
the tears
of joy
of those who had
none to shed
in the drought.


** Hindu Lunar calendar month

All for water ?

Three quarters swishing blue,
we crowd the fourth,
stuffing with concrete,
suffocating the green,
till the clouds
and the winds,
conspire to stop
crying
over the fields.




The farmer
weeps wordlessly
in his
lifeless land,
head in his hand,
waiting for the truant rain...

No groundwater,
Dry borewells,
A famine of power
within and without.

And so they
bore
the biggest hole
in a land where nothing grows;
desperate problems
desperate measures
and yet
they bomb the moon,
instead of
digging the earth.

...And
the waves
of the
three quarters swishing blue
tsunamically rise
and give up,
washing out tears
over the
parched land.

Up hundred steps in life

Inspired by this post from Manju







She looks up,
a hundred steps in the sun,
as two pots
brimming with water
fight for equilibrium
on her head and hip....


She looks up,
a hundred steps in the sun,
as an older daughter
cuddles
a baby brother,
with an eye
on the rice,
another on the
book
borrowed from
school...



She looks up
a hundred steps in the sun,
at the lady
who comes to help....
and guide.

She will listen,
discuss,
slog late into night,
So that many years later
she can look up
again,
not hundred steps,
but
into the eyes
of her children
successful
educated
working....

This time
the
Sun will shine
and smile down, a hundred steps,
wrapping them all
in the warm
honest admiration.........

Departing memories

Inspired by this post by Braja

The fading splash
of the amorphous
sindoor,
the limp,
descending
tresses
protecting
a rushing hot teardrop;


She
pulls her palloo
further
over her forehead,
closing in,
guarding fiercely
her memories....

In her heart of hearts
he never left;
In the bloom of a flower,
the fragrance of milk
slurped by a child,
a lamp lighting a prayer,
and
the music of the wind
traipsing
through the reeds,
he is always there...

Abusive learning

An eye for an eye
makes you blind
he said.
Of course
respectable folks,
they obeyed,
head down,
and educated themselves
highly
in words.

But a
word for a word
has made her deaf,
dumb
and she questions
if
having a
respectable
mother and father
yourself
is
a prerequisite
for
perpetuating abuse
that denies someone else
a
well defined father?

An eye for an eye,
Word for a word,
The beholder
and listener
is finally
deaf, dumb and blind......
The perpetrator
smiles
at
his creativity
in mouthing
one more
4 letter word.......

The bloom of life

The rose,
cognizant of
its perils
of the
morrow,
still exhibits
a grand grace
of budding
and blooming;
the colors
and fragrances
on full heartfelt offer
to all the passers-by;
and not just those
who turned
the soil at its feet
in the garden
one misty dawn.....

And I,
with a choice
of life,love and liberty
throughout,
still crib
and hold back;
a glare here,
sometimes a stare
in anger,
a turning away,
a closing of the heart,
sometimes,
the mind;
pushing the future
to be
just so........

When all is said and done
the petals lie
in a soft carpet
sprinkled with dew
happy at the end of life...

And I
at the end of mine,
still searching,
but
have
not yet
found it......

Surgery of the mind

An abused mind,
a cut here
a nick there,
a thousand slashing doubts
and a million fears......
Some thoughts
pulling you
helplessly
into an abyss....
While
a part of you
hangs on
holding tight
clinging
to the threads
of tradition and heresay.

The Doctor Up there
recommends
A Surgery of the Mind

Anaesthesia
of deep friendship,
Stitches of laughter
Embroiderd with care
A tradition
of worrying about others;
And a philosophy
Of sharing...

The Surgery
always succeeds.....
Its never the design of the face
but
the look in the eyes.

Healing

She goes in for surgery tomorrow. May His music heal and comfort.....




The expert of Kolkata
smiles,
disinfects,
microstitches,
soothing the surface,
thinking its Braja ver 1.1...



The Expert
with the flute,
his music,
calms
the trauma beneath...
And you wonder
at
His Expertise,
the seamless stitching
of a hurt spirit,
a painful body.

A contented mind,
thinking
about
a worrying mother far away
and someone
even Up There,
both
ensuring
that you have the best
healing
of the Spiritual kind...

No version change,
Its the same you....

Playing the game.....

Three portraits . Serena Williams at her profane best. Roger Federer at his defiant best. And Sachin Tendulkar, at what else, his BEST ! All happening in the same two day span. US Open . Sri Lanka.


She flies off
in anger,
burning words,
waving rackets
and balls,...
then
asymptotically
apologetically
reaches normal
playing for herself
as the prize money blinds.

He struggles,
returns,
petulantly angry,
with a perceived loss,
unhappy with
a newbie
who seems to
push
the rules.
Yet he plays for himself
As an imminent
record blinds.

But another,
in a gem of an island
in the Indian Ocean,
swipes and pulls
his team
wordlessly
to victory,
playing for all;
While he himself is happy,
looking up at
Someone Up There,
who smiles down at him,
and says,
"Thats how a game is played, son,
jai ho!"

Hands across the Ether

Real Friends remain friends. Regardless of distance and absence. And no one needs to prove anything, either to each other or to the world. Thoughts on reading this post by Braja.






Treads hesitantly.
the child,
through a dark
garden,
across
lush foliage
and
crushed flowers...
watching the moon
aeons away
through the branches,
matching his little feet,
step by step,
as it moves
with him
in the sky,
in and out
through the clouds.
Smiling, in friendship.



Those
who said,
it mindlessly revolves
around you,
test
the brain of the moon.
But I alone,
know it's heart,
as it walks with me
quietly,
cosmically,
aeons away,
always,
Smiling, in friendship.

The 'A' word

....Inner voice on austerity has spoken....Link



Wild expenditures
of power,
money,
and debit entries
for the account
called Integrity.....
There is
a recession
of Good Sense,
Honesty,
Altruism;



An Inflation
of Pride,
Lies
and Sick Money;
as they shamelessly
throw
their corrupt weight around.

And I sit,
despaired
on my haunches,
in the dark,
cursing
the angrily raging
capital-flooding
Yamuna;
looking up,
at these "leaders",
counting
1, 2, 3 , 4 and
5 stars
Hoping that
they finally learn,
amidst all the lies,
the
Austerity of the Mind

पुणे

परकर पोल्क्यात्ले पुणे,
काच्या मरून लंगडी खेळ्णारे पुणे
ऱस्ता ओलांडाय्ला वेळ लाग्तो म्हणून,
ड्राय्व्हर बस थाम्बवतो , ते पुणे,
सायकल वरून शाळेत जाताना साईड देणारे रिक्क्शावाले,
एक दोन वृत्तपत्रच अस्णरे पुणे,
ते माझे....


पर्वतिला गेल्यावर,
"आजींची नात आली" म्हणून
हातावर खोब्र्याचा प्रसाद आणि
साखरफुटाणे
देणारे पुणे,
आणि कॉलनीतला मुलगा
एस. एस. सी. ला पहिला आला,
म्हणून कॉलनीत्ल्याच धोब्यांनेच
पेढे वाट्ले ,
ते पुणे,
ते माझे....

हे अत्ताचे पुणे,
मी ओळ्खत नाही,
ते माझ्याबरोबर पुणे सोडून दूर गेले...
आता फक्त मनात असतं.....

E = m (c ) squared

Life vibrates all around before asymptotically leading you to a balance. Making choices. In comment to this post by Braja....

Mismatches
thru the ages,
He shows you
All the sides...

Some white and empty
like a blank mind,
that resounds
only to buying "one more";

Some, like
a blackboard---
Make your mistakes,
learn,
wipe,
and start again;

Some, blue-green
as in a calm river
that flows
regardless
of the tumult
on its banks;

And sometimes
a burning red
glowing long after
destruction
is complete...

Sometimes time dilates,
Sometimes the mind dilates..
And as the raindrops
trickle
outside
your mind's window
You observe and learn
to live ,
making choices,
relatively
in balance.....,

Enlightenment = my (seeing) squared....
Einstein
would probably approve.

Bovine E-Soliloquies

Spare a thought for the temple top cow. Dealing with conch shells and missed calls, as in this post by Kavi. Photo of temple at Kodai, courtesy Kavi.


She observes
this dicey world
chewing the cud
from
behind the man
with the conchshell
as he bravely competes,
with mindless obedient
electrons
departing in a rush.


Far away
the missus,
glances and purses her lips.
A missed call
to tell her
the milk van won't come today.
The cows
are part of a bandh,
protesting
the support
price for electrons...

Practically Spiritual of Spiritually Practical ?

Content with the spiritual in the daily and routine. On reading this by Braja.


Freshly cleaned puja lamps,
Whiff of burning ghee,
Champas and jasmines
filling the basket
as she sits,
her tresses adorned
with the saree pallu;
For puja
in a world she thinks
is godly celestial.
A ear tuned to the cry
of a little one
searching for his mother...
She pauses mid puja
as she sees him crawl in
and break
into a toothless smile;
Into her lap,
with a cry
climbs her Krishna,
Her other hand,
holds the aarti.
Praising Him,
soundlessly,
amidst his gurgles,
for this real Puja
Of her life.....

A tree's Karma

In response and contemplation of a post on " Karma" by Braja....

You, a tree,
you choose
how you grow;
Puffed with foliage,
firmly ensconced
in soil you claim
as your own,
waiting for the
perfect nurtured fruit***.....

Or spreading
a sheltering branch,
bending to offer
sweet fruit
to the weary man,
Rejoicing as the monkey
shakes you up,
amidst a shower
of flowers,
descending into the hair
of a delighted maid;
Maybe sometimes,
the crook of your branch
a home for someone
fighting a flood
of misfortune.....

And as a grandtree,
you,
of the thickened trunk
and grandkids swinging on
your hanging roots,
look back,
taking a breather
from
your happy busy life,
and wonder,
Karma ?
What was all that about ?

***कर्मन्येवाधीका रस्ते मा फलेशू कदाचन

Rocking times

Inspired by a wonderful post on a Rocking Horse



He looks down
From the loft,
A controlled neigh,
as he shrugs off
the dust of memories....
The little feet
clutching his sides
Hands around his face,
Face against his mane,
Holding tight,




And the mother calls
the little fellow
who pretends not to hear,
Rocks a bit harder,
bends and whispers,
Faster, Faster,
I cant go for a bath,
Or for lunch,
or to school....
They wont let me take you with me..

Today,
he watches ,
from the loft,
with a resigned neigh,
As the boy ,
enamoured with
an unreal mouse,
Clicks and writes about him....



“Riding a horse is not a gentle hobby, to be picked up and laid down like a game of Solitaire. It is a grand passion.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, American Lecturer and Essayist, (1803-1882)

The way out....

Embellished with gold
as she is,
Streaks in silver glisten
On her tresses,
falling across her face,
As do her unshed tears;
The house of two score years,
sheds its own.
Walls had ears,
but the words pierced
and hurt more,
and thinned them to a grid

Like a marauding monkey
swinging wild on a branch ,
His words fly around and stop
He watches,
His joy in her trauma,
And her limbs cringe and tighten
Withdrawing inwards ,
defiantly stiff.
There are no words
But she has seen the gleam
in the taunting eye...

Lungs packed, a sense of fear,
she even suspects her sleep,
her food.
Sitting at the window, staring
at the palm tree
which has witnessed all.

A barren life,
hers;
Devoid of heart,
fruitless,
his.

A deep breath,
a few more days,
She feels the lump
sometimes at her breast,
sometimes in her throat,
Saying yes
to the radiation
they say she needs;
And she feels
a lightness, of being
her own woman,
confident.
Something
to finally ,
happily,
terminally,
radiate away from him.

The lights of your life

In response to a wondrous and perceptive post about body,soul, permanence and sense of self.....






Little broken pieces,
Shards of prisms,
lying ,
truthfully
Refracting sunrays
to create
several rainbows ;



The shards
are the scars,
red in anger,
the skin betrayals,
the healing tissues,
the little pain
at the lip edge
as you smile,
the deepening wrinkles,
Crows eyes as you age
and
you learn to
"twinkle" back
at what life
has dealt you;

No glue works,
but eternal faith
in Him,
who patches the pieces,
sometimes of Body,
sometimes of Soul.

Puts them all together,
and you are
wholesome inside.
Your soul,
a prism,
coming together
to show you,
more rainbows in your life.........

Day of Independence

Step carefully
as you cut through
the crowd;
Not your neck
or your back,
neither your wallet
open to all;
Your mouth open,
covered in surprise,
The mask
in white
teasing the carriers of flu.

This dependence
on trees,
Cut yet for profit,
Flowing water pipes
bursting to flood,
Vegetables
rooted in virgin soil,
costing the earth,
dripping with chemicals,
She struggles to cook
for the little one
promised khichdi at school...

Nothing in hand,
no promises
no hopes;
Just a siren,
screech of a car,
Flunkeys with
mineral water,
and him,
dealing ,
with
A moneyed smile;

And she sighs,
Walking with her vessels
to the tap,
that trickles,
shakes her head.
Once again,
she will wave the flag;
it's Independence Day.