Ghatkopar is one of suburban Mumbai's busiest railway stations. In an outstanding display of how national resources are shared on a rainy day , two hitherto urban cows, venture up on the overbridge to experience how it feels to come up in the world.
Children trailing with parents, dragged to school across the Ghatkopar railway overbridge on a windy, rainy actually wonderful day.
This mother, missing her childhood meadows, greens and rivers, shows the kid the fun of looking at a bovine image in a rain puddle on the bridge....
She hears an announcement on the PA system, and rubs the Calf's forehead indulgently... the Go-"shala" **** at Ghatkopar East has declared a holiday today .....
****Goshala : shelter and residence for cows "shala" : Marathi for "school"
Tired, worried, home again from back breaking work in six households she sits, feet across the threshold, pressing her knees in the light of a myopic moon.
Wondering about tomorrow, hers and her childrens'.... What did she want, they asked ....
Independence ? Yes, from loans and disease, and enforced narrow thinking..... Love ? She had it in droves from her kids and mother; there was no one else, that mattered; the drink and hit types were lost to history and another geography.... and she liked her new freedom... Caring ? A difficult choice from amongst sons who learnt how, twelve to a room, but had hearts larger than most; daughters-in-law who wondered at the unusual ma-in-law who sent them to complete school; and the newest littlest additions, hell bent on teaching her to read their school books....
Indulgence ? Unmatched , as her 80 year old mother bids her to sit and enjoy the hot bhakri and pickle she's made just for her, coming in from a rain soaked slushy afternoon, and the grandchildren rushing in to snuggle as she sits leaning against the one pucca wall...
Freedom ? She grabbed it with both hands when she escaped with four kids from a living hell, populated with violence, lies, alcohol. and another woman...
Freedom Now, to work, to earn, decide how and where, how much to spend, for whom and how, freedom to say NO, freedom to breathe easy at times congested, and most of all freedom to dream.
Like Mumbai, she has the spirit; enjoying what she has, cherishing it. But dreaming about what could be.
She wants a permanent job for the boys, a sensible match for her daughter, once scarred in a misjudged alliance, admission for the grandkids in a school, with good teachers and a better future; and a hope that sometime someday somewhere, somehow, they live together in harmony in a house with a built-in toilet they can call their own......
Choices , did you say ? She has slogged and earned and shaped lives, of those she calls her own She has taught them all, and together, they choose and fashion their simple future....
She looks up at an immature moon, preening from all those pseudosmart poems, as she leans back and rests, a grandkid fast asleep on her knees.
"You want to know what I want? Come tomorrow, same time, same place, right now, this little chap might wake up....."
A deep river flowing with a sense of gratitude and peace, conscious, encouraging, but non interfering in the troubles, perturbations and upheavals on the buzzing banks.
Protecting those in boats bobbing along, buoyant for the kids, nestling and playing within the compassionate waves, with a glare, for those insulting nature's rules....
And One day, tired, slowing down, hand on my shoulder, searching my face, the flowing river slowly spread thin terminally, before becoming one with the endless sea.
Leaving behind memories warmly cocooned, etched deeply on minds, enriching the living plains and plateaus, every glowing moment, and not just on this windswept, wet,dreary torrential Father's Day.........
Sometimes newly upholstered chairs inspire , and one even imagines a dog, lying behind the chair observing the going ons....
(photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)
Beautifully beige, the fibers stretched to the full in accomodation, taking a deep breath, Ms Chair nudges the cushion, itself just recovered from a Sylvian clutch, as the lady sat, feet on the beige stool tapping in beat to the Symphony.
"I thought she'd never get up", said Ms Chair as she looked piteously at the stool half hidden by the shawl. "The new fibres are young, and I need to breathe a bit"
They didn't notice Mojo, *** quietly listening, behind the chair, waiting for Sylvia to return with her cup of coffee....
(photo by Sylvia Kirkwood) Stern grandfather mountain visages, serious in age, tired in their cracks, rising up to the sky with breathtaking craggy faces, a lifetime of working, growing, battling, nurturing.
Softened occasionally, by the cool green, alive in the mountain breeze, grandmotherly spaces, soft, and flowering through the ages.
And the little ones , come rushing by, gurgling, splashing, jumping over rocks, with a breathtaking dive into the exciting ice cold hotly exciting, Pool of Life, below.....
