Tea generations ....

There is something comforting, about pouring yourself  a decent cup of brewed tea in a verandah, just coming to terms with the arriving sunrays on a reflecting glass table. 

And unlike dainty bone china matching sets  with a dainty tinkle, this tea is all about brewing in an old silver/pewter teapot handed down from your folks,  a sugar pot that bears an inscribed date of significance etched on the steel, and a huge tough  sensible tea cup, the likes of which a kid might use to have his cornflakes  in a hurry. 

My friend Sangeeta Khanna obviously enjoys her tea like this on these cold mornings in new Delhi, as she enjoys her garden from the window .....


(photo by Sangeeta Khanna )

The chubby ceramic
young one,
freshly awake
glinting in the
early morning Sun.

You need
to be made of steel,
as a parent
dispensing sweetness in dollops,
as you straddle two generations,

One,
indulgently disseminating
warm spiced flowing love
from its warm silver heart,
to the modern grandkid
who is
thrilled to bits
but all ears,
as it asks for
that one extra spoonful
of sugar ,
from its Ma.

Good Morning !

Cycle of Time

A common sight seen now, in the Mumbai suburbs. Cycles have always been around, but not so much in Mumbai. More so, in my childhood, in Pune. Then, almost everyone learned to cycle, and it was the preferred mode of transport for young folks. Today, in Mumbai, you can see many folks who cannot cycle, but are experts at zooming on motorized  2-wheelers.....  

Courier fellows like this one are often seen, all wrapped up in today's technology, multitasking as it were, sometimes confidently driving on the wrong side of the road.

  One such capture by my friend Magiceye, as part of his 365 Project Series.

 

A better road,
a similar bike,
a fellow
with a  pastel
full-sleeved shirt
and
pants with cuffs at the ankles
fastened with
"cycle pins"
at the shins
pedals to college,
avoiding
an occasional passing
snub nosed Fiat,
his
college books
on the carrier seat,
and no phones,
but messages from the parents,
to return home in time,
study,
avoid bad company etc,
ringing in the ears.....

Today roads are worse,
fellows with
pink purple tees
and jeans and pants
go on similar bikes,
working as part time
courier boys,
pedalling on the wrong side
tangling with huge Hondas,
cell phones to their ears,
and
messages from folks saying,
"Ate waqt, ek dazan anda leke aa.....".....

The only thing unchanged
is the Cycle of Time.....

Karma

Sometimes bloggers participating in a-post-a day schemes, provide you with a ready canvas for your words.

Swaram already heralds spring in her blogpost, with these wonderful photos of flowers from Kodaikanal.

(photo by Swaram's friend)
A confident worldly father,
a mother by the side,
bending
to adjust her shawl
just so,
the newly pink
young daughter,
dew fresh
in the morning breeze,
they stand,
grieving
behind
the old tired
grandparent,
who having
graced the good
and growing times,
now stands
next to the grandchild,
fatigued,
and
a bit lifeless,
before
slipping away,
returning to dust.

A time to bloom
and
a time to wither,
and
in between,
a time,
to bring joy
to so many
enjoying
their sojourn
in the
Garden of Life….

Wrapped in Serendipity

There must be something in the air of the Pacific Northwest. So many friends there enjoy creating great images. Rain, who blogs at Rainy Day thoughts , is a person who enjoys various forms of creativity like painting, photography, and writing about dreams, relationships, politics, photography, aging, country living, transitions, our senses (all 6), and spirituality. She lives on her own farm, which gives her a unique perspective and a respect for all things Natural.

This is a painting done by her, related to real people she knows. Read her post to wonder about the Serendipity ....

It inspired this below, 12,000 miles away.....

(painting/artwork/photo by Rain)


Snug
as a fit
on life's
jigsaw picture puzzle
they sit,
the little one
leaning back
nuzzling against her
sharing colors
and comfort,
as she
looks out
over the
lapping waves.

Is that her,
ten thousand moons hence,
silvery in the night ?



And the older,
silvery one
trails her fingers
through
the young flaxen gold,
smiles
at the
setting sun
and
gets lost
as she relives
her girlhood again ...