An Elephantine Dussehra

 
My blogfriend Braja Sorenson is well acquainted with temples, processions and elephants,  since she lives in Mayapur , Paschim Banga in the vicinity of the Iskcon Temples.  She posted this photograph of an elephant getting into the spirit of the festival, so to speak.

I just thought this beats all those L'Oreal, Revlon and Lakme folks by miles .....

(photo by Braja Sorenson)

A childhood
spent wandering behind her mother
amidst jungle treks
and river baths
in Thekkady
or was it Periyar,
she doesn't remember.

Then an adolescence
on being shifted
to a park in Pune;
bearing a decorated seat,
taking these bipeds for a ride
waving with her trunk
acknowledging folks
like a model on a ramp;
being poked
as an instruction  to turn back.

Sometimes,
a trip somewhere
in a huge van
or a train enclosure,
unable to get her bearings,
and she was told it was God's work
at a temple procession in Mumbai.

And then all those walks
across the
terrible Mumbai roads,
noisy autos, racing bikes,
four wheeled colorful contraptions
with two legged colorless types inside;

Sedate in the Sun,
she paces across the potholes,
unmindful
of her burning soles.

She hears music,
folks in colorful mirrored garbs,
dancing away,
whirling to the beat
of some folks on a stage
trumpeting songs...
Evil looking chaps
(like the ones who
salivated at her tusks,)
set up for burning.

Finally,
something good triumphing over evil.

An inexplicable urge
to dance
and play garba
with her painted trunk,
her back
decorated with colorful seats,
and a tikka and crown
with beads on her immense forehead.

That is her dream.
Before she gets betrothed,
possibly to someone
in the latest elephant technology park
or some one's
grandson in the wilds of Thekkady...

Unlike the bipeds,
she follows rules 
of traffic, noise, and others
of the Mumbai Police,
who refuse her permission.....

And so  she pines for
and makes do
with some Alta streaks on her feet
Nail polish
on her sculpture Nails
and carries on.

The former,
because honestly,
it is good for her cracked heels,
and looks amazing;
the latter,
because
Hey ! it's in fashion !

It's festival time,
and
she needs to put
her good foot forward ...

Sunshine Women

My young blogger and FB friend, and a quietly observant and sensitive photographer Swati Maheshwari, recently did a guest photopost for my friend Zephyr Nag. The subject was "the rural woman" as seen through her lens, and the photographs simply oozed strength. 

And it was all about no posing, no accessorizing, no publicity, but a quiet and serious getting on with life, while some urban types suffer diseases caused by the arrogance of abundance.

As Swati says ,

" .....When I look at a woman, my mind is awhirl  with questions, not just one, but plenty that intrigue, tease and make me wonder about the thoughts that go on in her mind. What she is like, who she is in her life, the stories, the joys and sorrows that are etched in the lines of her face.  She is not  just a person, but an entire saga of life itself. As strange as it may seem, every woman is alike in a certain way and yet every woman is unique in her own way. Come with me on the journey of discovery of this wonderful being and her myriad facets...."

Swati blogs at Espial ,  is an amazing photographer,  a PR Consultant , and co-founder at Rustic Art, the creators of an environment friendly and organic range of products.

She is the flower
that blooms,
in the tree’s scheme of things.

Never the “heroine”
pretending,
next to
dahlias and orchids
in bought bouquets,
she faces
the winds
in the bloom of her life,
aware of the fruit
that comes later.

Unarranged, undisplayed,
but oozing strength
in a seasonal blossom,
she tangles with birds,
while allowing the bees,
and moths,
and tolerates
the wandering
of the little ants
all over her.

She blossoms,
with some like her,
some still tiny,
and some
who actually leave
and are taken away
to adorn
someone’s artificial celebration.

And they all learn,
that regardless
of the time of their Life,
it doesn’t matter,
what color you are,
what size you are,
how sharp you are,
or how old you are.

It is about remembering
what the Big Tree taught you,
getting on with others,
being true to yourself,
putting in the great effort,
facing big storms
and emerging, head up,
smiling.

Another day,
Another sun,
and she rises,
brushes off some dewdrops,
and smiles
as she sees
in the distance
the silhouette
of
the little
strong woman
with the camera……..

Evening Colors

A single photograph can inspire so many streams of thought.

My blogger friend Rain Trueax who lives on a farm in the Pacific Northwest, is a permanent invitee to the Great Nature Show on Changing Season Colors, since she lives in the midst of it all. An accomplished  painter artist, she writes on a wide variety of subjects.

She recently posted a wonderful photograph along with her thoughts in poetry form.
 (Both as below)

Woman 

watching a leaf

waiting for it

to fall

Thinking...

How does she

help her daughters,

those of birth

and those of

life 

know their own

feminine self?

The earth knows the

answer--

 know yourself. 

 

She has posted this in a post  "Seasons and their Wisdom"  on her blog "Rainy Day Thoughts".

I commented  my interpretation in verse.  And she was gracious enough to let me use her photograph here.  My interpretation below.....

(photograph by Rain Trueax)

Facing life colors
with
cheerful equanimity
the tree
revels
in russets
and reds
and browns,
shining gold
in the early autumn sun.

There is no
regret
for the loss of green.

And she wonders
how to tell her daughters
that
if your mind remains green
you need
no other color
to beat
the passages of time
in your life.....

Learning to Bystand.....:-(

My friend Magiceye, posted this photograph  of a crow getting the capital punishment, almost poked to death,  watched by the Crow society.   You may see it here  at 365project.org.

With rules of civil society being changed, abused, and implemented  with an eye on those in power , and the recent happenings in Guwahati and elsewhere, one just wondered if the crows were learning something......like the Bystander Effect.    

An ordinary life,
struggling for open skies,
food,
and avoiding
powerful swooping
eagle eyed spies.

Did he offend
a neighbor
with a bad Kaw Kaw ?

Was he found
making eyes
at a local girl crow ?

Or is it a she crow,
who decided to elope
with a he crow
she scavenged around with..?


They were both found
beneath
the bougainvillea branch
sharing a chapati,
he retrieved from a kind balcony.

They poked him
and molested her
to bits,
two leading powerful
gunda crows,
impervious to being photographed.

And the rest of them,
amazingly,
simply stood around,
supposedly stunned,
but gutless,
proving the Bystander effect.

The crows have learned a lot
from us.

High on a Swing.....

My FB friend, and photography enthusiast , Prasad Paranjape, posted this capture of a glass of rum, describing it simply as MCDOWELL RED RUM ALWAYS ON THE ROCKS.

Many a life and a house has been affected by overenthusiastic senseless imbibing of what looks amazing here,  and those who have quit, know the difference.

I have neither imbibed nor quit.  But can imagine the blatant mindset of the golden liquid.  Which inspired this poem. 

And only those who watch the latest wonderful Marathi Serial "Unch Majha Zokaa"  will understand the reference to "rummi" at the end.

Originally written in Marathi. A possible translation follows...

स्वतःचीच झिंग,
खोटा सोनेरी भाव ,
स्वारोव्स्की परवडत नाही
म्हणून बर्फाशी लाडी गोडी..
किती लोकाना फसवले,
किती लोकांना बदलले ,
किंतीन्च्या घरून वदवले ,
पण ही बया आपल्याच धुंदीत ,
आपल्याच स्वप्नात
काचेच्या आतून आंधळी ...
ह्या रमिला कधी कळणार,
कि तिचा झोका कधीच उंच जाणार नाही ?

A swinging life,
Drunk on her
own importance,
a false attitude
of being giltedged and golden,
messing around
and snuggling up
to the ice cubes
pretending
they are Swarovski
on the rocks.....

Countless people misled,
fooled,
countless lives changed
for the worse,
countless families
worriedly pleading,
but she remains,
uncaring, self centred,
blind to the outside ,
as she pretends
to see through the glass.

Will this Rum-i
ever realize,
that despite her
swinging life pretensions,
her swing will
never fly high ?

Life of Padwalibai....or Miss Snake-Gourd...

I never thought I would be making a poem on a snake gourd.

But my blogger friend Magiceye posted this amazing photograph of Snake Gourd pieces stuffed with some yummy spicy potato filling, sizzling on skewers, and a poem happened.

The story could be that of a humble simple woman, lost in the attractions of fast modern life as we know it, and possibly , one day, harking back to it, and thinking about old times, as she rests .... 

Padwal : Marathi for Snake Gourd...

Her life
is all
about being
green, slim and supple
and humbly
offering her help,
often at
the cost of her looks.

Sometimes,
her mind too,
as they delve deep in,
and ferret out her fibrous thoughts.

A sign of the times,
disposing off tough aspects
of life
and
filling it with
fluffy,
spicy,carbo-energetic
stuff.

She is a bit cut up
but
there is no looking back,
as ,
she unknowingly
gets used
to hanging out on party skewers,
in high fat makeup
slathered around and shining.

A fast life
burning
herself at both ends,
the body showing
effects of
fancy skin makeup.

Trying to be
what you are not,
in the process
of being attractive
to someone else.....

Sigh.

She leaves the party skewer,
to rest a bit
on a china plate,
unaware,
that somewhere to the side,
a tear of liquid fat
has fallen,
thinking about
the old life on the Vine.

Tattered Lives

Sometimes you see amazing photos on FB that inspire you. Sometimes thanks to friends of friends.  One such,  is by someone who calls himself Durgesh Unpredictable.  And he calls his photos as  "  "i" (eye?) photographs "........

At first I thought this was a map of some sort. Then i realized it was a leaf, probably living out its Vanaprasthashram in a very traumatic way.

It inspired a poem in Marathi (The King's language :-)) 

The translation in the Queen's language follows ......


 (photo by Durgesh Unpredictbale)

कुणा एका आयुष्याचा हा नकाशा ,

एके काळची गार हिरवाई ,
आज एखाद्या राड्यातून बाहेर पडल्यासारखी,
इकडे तिकडे भोकं पडलेली;
स्वतःला सांभाळत ,
मधूनच समुद्राच्या खाडीला वळसा घालत,
त्याच्या तळाशी
मासे आणि अन्य प्राणीजनांना चकवणारी
प्लास्टिक चौकटीतली घाण बघत ,
सुस्कारा देत वर बघते ...

आणि
पलीकडले
खोटे
पांढरे स्वच्छ ,
खोटे बोलून , धर्मा धर्मात भांडणे लाउन
आपल्याच लोकात आग लाउन ,
मतांसाठी,
स्वताचे खिसे भरत
बाकीच्यांना फाटके तुटके करून
लाल निखारे फुलवणारे
नेते बघून थक्क होते ....

बिचारी हिरवाई ,
स्वताहा भोवती आपल्याच फांद्या गुंडाळते
मागे फिरते ,
आणि आकाशाकडे बघत
कुणा एका पावसाळ्याची वाट बघत ,
तिष्ठत राहते ....

 Old Green memories
in tatters...

She emerges,
totally scathed,
injured and marked
through the remaining Green,
and wanders
looking for a resting spot,
traipsing around
a few bays,
inroads made
by a sea traumatised by
polluted waste
positioned to capture
innocent sea lives....

Only to look up,
and see,
far away,
on another bank,
folks with pure white looks
and blacker minds,
playing Fire-Fire
as they fan the Vote Flames,
with fans
of religion,
money
and lies,
leaving
a torn populace,
shredded
in the hot red embers.

.....
......
She turns back,
wrapping
her remnant branches
around her shoulders,
and recedes
into the remaining Green,
desperately awaiting
the arrival
of a much needed Rain.

Tree and Empathy

My blogger and FB friend Varsha Tiwary who hails from Central India, is a bureaucrat, poet, and someone who loves to live in balance with the body, listening to what it has to say.

Have a look at her two blogs,   Wholesome Options  and Poetic Break  .

  She recently posted a lovely capture of what she poetically described as , "Weeping Willow curtains Off the Beauty; as Mountain lake and Sky Become One."....;  possibly a scene at the window of a lovely mountain cottage that enchanted her...

 As she says , "Nature heals where nothing else can : age loneliness and much else......."

I agree. 

 (photograph by Varsha Tiwary)

She remembers
the house
with the lovely garden
where
she sat at the window
of her room
as a child,
hair freshly washed,
drying,
and a gust of mountain wind
would tumble it
over her face,
tickling her eyes.

 

Today,
she sits alone
in an empty house,
with a smooth shiny pate
in the company
of
the Emperor of Maladies.

The old tree
with a great memory,
and even greater height,
bends over
with its branches at the window,
trying
to see the little girl
who once sat there
long long time ago....

Gilt-Edged Cardiac Chemistry

Gold is called a Noble metal, and its nobility is highlighted by the fact that acids have no effect on it. (Unless of course, you are Aqua Regia, but then Latin is not my strong point).

One of my young blogging friends, Pri, wrote a wonderful post on Acid Tests in Life, and how we fool ourselves into thinking , that we have passed the acid test "in relationships", simply because the environment is conducive to it; only to have the world collapse in shambles around us, during inclement times.  I think , the number of seasons (62 in this case), one has seen in life, gives one a different perspective, and I rush in (where qualified folks fear to tread) ,to reassure my friend.....


And then I realized something.  We primarily use Gold to adorn the persona. The purest Gold cannot be made into adornments. For that , it has to be made less noble, with the addition of other metals that give it some hardness, that allows us to design beautiful things. This "impure" addition makes it react to the acid.  The amount of other metals added decides the karats and the strength.  (22,18,14,10 etc).

So while it may look like one's relationship  has failed the acid test  by reacting to the acid,  another way to see the same is to realize that it is pointing to a way to strengthen it, so it can be proudly enjoyed , in future seasons. 

 Chemistry of the acid type in NOT supreme.  That of the people type, is, and lasts.

  (photo courtsey Google)

The acid
is like a teacher;

Sometimes lovable,
sometimes intimidating,
sometimes cursed.

And
unlike us
she knows
about different golds.

There are
the purest ones,
unchanged in acid,
regardless of
season fluctuations...

Then the
22 and 18 karat folks,
who absorb some
presumed sins,
in the interests
of being tough
in rough times...

And then again,
the 14 and 10 karatwalaas,
open to the world
and all its
doubtful additive ideas
in an effort to be the toughest.

The most impure
get the worst treatment
from the Acid teacher,
sizzled in scar tissue.

Its a strength
of test, endurance and learning,
as the gold
can always learn
new lessons.



It doesn't mean it failed the test.

It simply means
that it is
learning about life,
gaining strength,
and hopes to adorn some
wonderful lives
come spring....

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.

Kralanic thoughts ....

Nisha Jha, my blogger friend,  who loves to take off and travel SOLO to different countries, and then  sits soaking in the memories amidst her wonderful clicks, is currently in Cambodia doing volunteer work,  meeting folks, eating, and writing about what she likes. 

Like Kralan.  A kind of cousin of Puttoo, a similar Kerala traditional dish.  She writes about it  on her blog  and you can enjoy some photos of her sojourn in Cambodia  on her FB page here  and  here. 

The world over , wherever Bamboo is grown, or grows, it has myriads of uses,  some of them in cooking as an implement.  It is amazing to see the similarities in what is stuffed inside the hollow of a bamboo and cooked, say in Kerala and Cambodia.

My Malyali friends tell me that the bamboo piece is reused again later. In Cambodia, it looks, like  it is peeled open to access the delicious stuff inside, and is not usable again.  Maybe its different varieties of Bamboo, or possibly the benefits of plenty.

Different geography, different history, different people , and  different methods.  But what is inside is so similar.

Makes you think.  

(I just found out that another blogger friend, who has wheels and wings instead of feet, is also in Cambodia and she and Nisha have just met.  Possibly over a Kralan lunch ?  :-).....Who knows !)   


(Photos by Nisha Jha)
Growing long,
looking tough,
hollow inside ,
but
with an amazing ability
to bend
when under demand,
whether to hurt
or
to blindly praise someone.
Say hello to Mr Politician.


Some grow
old and tough,
and on harvest,
change their minds.

Life isnt all
about power
and tall status,
and
but about giving of yourself,
bits and pieces at a time,
holding yourself wrapped,
again and again,
around
some like minded friends
like rice and coconut,
all together,
simmering deliciously
on a bed of Coals,
to emerge
from the hot tunnel
into the real world
ready to repeat this
all over again.
Say hello to the Social Worker.

But for some,
its their entire life.

Life is then
about
carefully holding together
and guiding
differently gifted folks
like rice, coconut,
beans,
all awash
in the milk of human kindness,
boxed in from all sides
but
cooking in empathy
on the Bed of Life,
only to
sacrifice oneself
and sometimes fall apart,
just so
the world enjoys
the delicious, nutritious
and beneficial fruits of labor.
Say hello to a Mother.

The Best Gift of all .....

 My blogger and FB friend Gopinathji Mavinkurve  recently ( a few hours ago)  posted something  by his friend Smt Vanita Kumta, on the subject if eye donation.  

Totally, as a strange coincidence , I came upon this meaningful photograph,  of a new young plant that has struggled through a huge wall, to grow and see the Sun, posted by my blogger friend Shail Mohan.

I remembered my  late parents , who had both expressed their wish,  impressed the fact  upon us,  and  donated their eyes,  at their death.  We honored their wish. I think it is a wonderful  gift,  and it instills a hope, that whoever benefits by it, may see , maybe , a better world than what we see today. 

(I am copying below some information re Eye donation,  posted by Smt Kumta. Unable to put a link.)

 Why donate eyes?

To begin with for a selfish reason; our eyes can live even after our death. Secondly, more importantly, we can light the life of two blind people by donating our eyes after our death. Thirdly, not to mention, eye donation is the noblest of all causes.

 1.5% of the population are unnecessarily blind
25% live below the poverty line
2.5 million children are suffering, including those who don't have the correct spectacles
32% are under 15
60% of blind children will not make it to adulthood. A cumulative economic loss to India's GNP of US$11.1 billion
75% live in rural areas
There are 12,000 ophthalmologists in the country but the majorities of them live and work in the urban areas
40% live in rural areas in central & northern India where there is little access to quality eye care services

It has been proven beyond doubt that almost everyone can donate eyes. People who wear spectacles, with high B.P., diabetics or people with systemic disorders like asthma, tuberculosis, or even those who have undergone cataract surgery can donate eyes. The only criterion is a healthy and clear cornea.

Eyes have to be harvested within six hours of death. So it is critical to inform the nearest eye bank. It is always best to fill out an eye-pledge form and inform family members of your desire. Expressing a desire for eye donation in one's will is fairly useless since a will is generally opened only a few days after the death, while an eye needs to be harvested within six hours.

Are you ready to gift a life? Become an eye donor today

And then, something that occurred to me...... 

(photo by Shail Mohan)

The seed of an idea
planted
in the mind,
growing up,
bringing others up.


A wish,
quietly nurtured,
without
too much noise,
getting on with life,
developing ,
building protective walls,
prioritizing,
and linking
to others,
sometimes
by wear and tear
sometimes
by adding a small gate
to traverse the walls,
without and  within.

Life,
slowly tiring,
exponentially,
flattens asymptotically,
but the seed ,
and the idea
has been
growing inside,
moving,
finding a path
into the sun.

A donation
of your eyes,
that little gap
in the life wall
of
a sightless unlucky one,
and the seed
slowly germinates
greens
leaves and all,
to emerge
into a
a new Sun.....

Where a Death
created
for someone else
a new Life
in a rainbow world....

A Sab-ji(yo) morning

The most enjoyable season in New Delhi, in undoubtedly winter; particularly the onset. Misty mornings, clarifying sunlight, lovely breezes, small bonfires on their last legs on sidewalks, a wonderful nip in the air, kids in blazers, walking and being driven to school,  and the amazing crisp vegetables that are available in this season.

Blogger friend IHM posted recently on what it is about this season that she enjoys in Delhi.

One such picture , of a lady , lugging her supply of fresh veggies to the market , ensconced on top of the heap, and pulled by the ricksha driver, right there in the middle of the road traffic, touched something in the mind somewhere.

Winters,
a nip in the air,
and thoughts crowd
the mind
like traffic in Delhi.

For some,
an indulgent childhood,
dustless closed transport
sometimes for pointless learning;
sometimes conditioned by air,
sometimes by money,
designer lives,
and
a designer alliance
with a designer bidaai****.


And for some,
a green childhood
open to the sky,
anchored to the earth,
drenched in rains,
nodding in winter,
only to bloom and open up
in the Sun,
cared for by her,
but now en route
to a new life
in a sasuraal.*****

The cauliflowers,
and the spinach,
and the bhindi,*
and the tomatoes
huddle together one last time,
as the barat
reaches the mandi,**
the mother,
firmly holding them
all together,
as the man drives
to the venue,
the load,
more on his mind…..

A Bidaai of a different kind….


****Bidaai :  Bidding adieu to the bride as she leaves her maternal folks

*****sasuraal  : House of the in-laws

** Mandi :  vegetable market

*Bhindi : okra,ladyfingers

Running up the life stairs....

Braja Sorenson, blogger friend, Yogini, Photographer, and Author of a soon to be published "Lost and Found in India", has lived in UK/US/NZ, but now lives on the banks of the Ganges, in Mayapur, West Bengal. Her travels in India have taken her to , in this case, Vrindavan, Uttar Pradesh. This is a click at the Samadhi of a 16th century saint. Posted on her Photoblog, Braja's India. 

The native architecture reminds me of some old Wadas seen in Pune;  old, cool, massive, still going strong, broken steps, arches, wall shelves and all, through which so many generations played,lived and  made it out into a successful world....

(photo by Braja Sorenson) 

Thick mud walls,
witness to
an age,
when
she would
clutch her slate,
rub her runny nose
with her sleeve
and try
climbing up
the stairs,
on her way
to the small school
(a mile away),
with the help of her hands,
so small were her legs.

So many tough climbs,
some smooth,
some broken,
some patched up,
some studded
with unknowns in
wall recesses
dark with
questionable intent.

She fell,
only to get up again,
and one day,
ran up
the same steps
two at a time.

Doors
had opened up for her
and she could see
the light
welcoming her
into the world outside.

The Interrupted Dance....

My blogger friend Sandhya, posted this as part of her Wordless Wednesday series.

Clicked in the gardens at Munnar, in the mountains,  it appeared as if these two were really enjoying a decent outing, a huge change from spinning webs in corners of crowded buildings and rooms amidst junk, catching pesky insects, and trying to avoid folks who walk around with brooms.  (I fly on a broom. Check on the left sidebar.  Just saying.)

Sadly, it was not to be.  Bloggers traipsing around with cameras and clicking , is the latest scourge.


Bloggers may be posting Wordlessly on Wednesdays.  The spiders et al must crib all seven days of the week.


(photo by Sandhya)

They emerged
from
the urban chaos,
free
into the garden;
simply no privacy
in these days of
expensive housing.

The cool greens,
the dappled sunlight,
smooth petal paths,
and the Spider-rao,
and Spideri-bai
stepped gaily
through the garden
dancing in unision
to the tune
of
Jai Ho !

But it was not to be.
A smiling lady
with a camera
advanced
and clicked.....

And a little caterpillar
lurking behind
a flower,
looked up, and said,
"We need to appoint PROs!
These bloggers !
She clicked me too ...."
:-)

The last bright glow...

A lovely photograph (possibly from her garden) posted by my blogger friend Sangeeta, who blogs about organic cooking, healthy cooking, traditional foods, ayurveda and gardens.

healthfood desivideshi
homealone
ayurveda on my plate
banaras ka khana

This made me think. We make so much fuss of illnesses, often when they are age-related. One of the side effects of having a brain, I guess.

And then there is the life of this leaf, splendorously filigreed in dedication to the earth, returning to it, as it bravely approaches the end....

(photo by Sangeeta Khanna)
Blood coursing
unhindered,
unblocked,
racing to heal;

The sap of the earth,
climbing
in immense
sharing
and
self belief,
through trunks
to the coquettish edges
of a
disgruntled leaf;

Helpful thoughts
rushing your mind,
hurrying
the feet
to reach somewhere in time.

It all ends
when the flow stops.
And, life
is all about
how well you
allowed it to flow....

And while we
rue
the stoppage
in geriatric despair,
somewhere,
the delicate green
has turned
bravely,
to
a filigree gold,
like an ode to nature
before
dropping,
silently, back to earth....

Cloud-thinking....

A new blogger friend, Roshan K, from Kerala , posted this photo on Google+. You can see some of his work here.

The skies are a peaceful blue. But sometimes misleading.


In our own
people sky,
blue and together,
pointed targeting
of masses
happens.

Those that hit,
generate
clouds
of their own,
behind them
as they escape.
thinking
they can blend in
and hide amidst the
rest.

But their clouds,
violent,
avaricious,
fuel rich
and polluting
will never find
a place
in the social
peaceful cloud network
C+ in the sky,
as a friend, acquaintance
or family.

They will be blocked......

A return to where you came from.....

My blogger friend Harekrishnaji, is a very versatile photographer; in a single day, he posts photographs, of deep mountain gorges, green valleys, dream houses, buffet displays of breads in fancy eating places, and just in case you think he has finished, he suddenly comes up with this dedication to a dragonfly at its moment of Death, in a creek, somewhere in his travels.

The picture says a lot. I learnt a lot about the life of a dragonfly .

(photo by Harekrishnaji)
A dream life
in the water,
as a dragonfly nymph,
hatched
from ova
flush with the stem
of a blooming aquatic plant.

A teenage
spent
misleading the fish
in style,
sometimes,
even fighting
amongst themselves,
winner takes all,
carnivorously
consuming assorted
unaware
timid folks
in the water.

One day,
the rock edge beckons,
and as she clutches
on to its face,
her wings unfold
in the glinting sun,
powered to fly.

A wild buzzing life,
tangling troubles,
swooping
around gardens,
a graceful
span of the wings,
a sniff here,
a look there,
a tentative touch.
a time to mate
and
a time to procreate.

A short sunny life,
and
the cold monsoon air
and stiff wings,
herald
a time to go.

Water of your birth;
you return
to the water of Death.

Howzzat !

Australia play India today. Many will bunk office, claim outside work trips, sit unmoving through the various innings, quote history, gorge on food, lose appetites, glare at someone asking a question, swear at foolish bowling, and basically lose their minds.

Sometimes one wonders if life is cricket. Except for some , it is an unending lifelong-everyday-day-international played in the grounds of Life..............







Life,
she said,
threw bouncers at her;
She ducked some,
She faced some,
and became strong
in the process
of absorbing
angry looks,
muttered abuse,
and disdainful spitting.

Sometimes,
a slow one
made her think,
though momentarily.
Misled
into shoving it away,
she saw
the pillars shaking behind her.

Someone was
always spinning;
sometimes an imaginary yarn,
sometimes
a violence,
that appeared to go elsewhere,
but was directed to her.

She removed her
helmet of doubts,
wiped her
brow,
squinting at those
planning to destroy....

Sweeping
fashionable fools,
Flicking stuff
far behind her
crossing boundaries
set for her;
An almighty
shove
high up there
as her confidence
grew
like the projectile
that hit
the stands of
those
who understood and supported her...

Sometimes
in a pose reminiscent
of a Nataraja,
sometimes,
down on her knees,
slapping out
all the
dangers and troubles,
everything
meant for her.

And Life,
in a white coat,
held its hands,
sometimes high up,
sometimes
as if,
indicating the
green expanse,
giving her
all the resources
she needed.....

She looked up,
blinded
a bit by the
flooding sweat,
and more by
some tears of
relief and joy....

It looked like she would win
at last !

Mind Games.....

Most people are stunned by the Williams sisters, Nadal, Federer etc on the tennis courts. But some are enraptured by undulating nets, sometimes due to sharply impacting tennis balls, maybe a touch of a sliding raquet, or a fast frisky run of a dedicated ball boy. My friend Kavi Arasu belongs to the latter category. See more of his sports pictures here.


(photo by Kavi Arasu)
The mind ,
like
life barriers
shuns opacity of thought.


Challenges
served
from the other side,
the hint of direction,
visible through
black Net lashes,
a sudden
intake of breath
followed
by a
determined
studied return;
sometimes a slide,
sometimes a fall,
sometimes a polite return,
sometimes a sharp one,
sometimes a disdainful toss,
and
sometimes
you win the game,
as the
bright yellow
shots
aimed at your mind,
bashfully
collect
at your feet,
on the other side
watched
by a
magnanimous blinking
of
your Net
of black eyelashes....