A Bozoical E-Rubaiyat

Sometimes I wonder if this guy Bozo , Mumbai's blogger Dog, is actually more evolved than us.

I mean, he watches folks all around him, and their activities in the rain. He sees folks sleeping off, getting up late, fiddling around endlessly on their phones, watching television serials, and various sports without moving their own limbs, all the while continuously imbibing stuff.  

And then he watches some folks,  having proper meals, doing some yoga, and spending a decent afternoon of a stormy day , with a book .

And he simply knows who he should emulate.  I wish some bipeds could understand this and learn.......

 

I hear there used to be a chap
called Omar Khayyam
who wrote about
a loaf of bread,
a jug of wine, and thou....

Very clearly,
he missed out
on the finer things in life...

A drizzling monsoon,
me sitting ,
in the breeze,
nicely rubbed and dried
after a butterfly chase,
a crisp dosa
wrapped around my paws,
warm milk in the bowl,
a few special London treats
sitting alongside,
as my nostrils get into
an exciting quiver,
at the sight
of a book,
of me,
for me,
by someone else.....

Sorry, Omar !
Bread, wine and thou
are not a patch on
dosa, milk, and me ....

Monsoon Ghosts

Mumbai has been thrashed , the last few evenings, by an onslaught of  rain amidst a lot of grumbling thunder and crackling lightning.  This odd-timed rain is of no use to the ones who really look forward, year after year , to a good monsoon for their crops. Like our esteemed politicians, all fire and brimstone, noise, and no substance.

My friend Magiceye, captured a typical rainy late evening scene in a suburb of Mumbai, as folks return home , on dark roads, lit only by vehicle headlights sometimes,  with dull visibility,  and a sense of having to make do with the  lack of proper infrastructure. 

Looked ghostlike. Two bright eyes, bobbing and floating in the gloom. Till I realized whose ghost it could be .

The Monsoon ghost
its energy spent this year,
simply wandering around,
loaded
with sound and bright fury,
in totally random places,
finally
descends on Mumbai
like a politician
with no substance,
flying in
amidst lights
by a
noisy helicopter,
but with nothing
useful to say.

Walking ,
slithering,
finding his way
amidst dark potholed roads,
trees cowering under
an onslaught
of illegal building plans
sanctioned,
and empty roads,
lit by a lone four wheeler
limping on
expensive fuel.

A lone dog,
wandering ,
looking for shelter,
gives him a look,
sneezes,
emits a disgusted moan,
and disappears into the darkness.

Bozoical meditations....

Bozo, Mumbai's only dog-with-his-own-blog  has his own  sensible way of handling nonstop heavy monsoon downpours in Mumbai, and as he sees folks on TV talking about it "raining cats and dogs", he almost feels like suing them for defamation.

Bozo , is a very well informed person,  and has become wise in his old age.

He spends a lot of time, meditating about things on the cool floor, and his mentor and life-chronicler Magiceye, captured him during one such session .

Wild tornadoes,
spiralling winds,
lifting and carrying off
creatures of the land and water;
then depositing
over a city
along with a torrential rain.

Frogs, birds, Fish,
spiders and bats
too,
centrifuged and flung down
and
word-corrupting bipeds
convert Greek
"Katadoupoi"(waterfall)
into "cats and dogs".....

Never mind.

In Mumbai,
I just stay in
on heavy
non stop pouring
windy monsoon days.

You never know
what the winds carry
here
in their tornado  pockets...
and who wants
to be showered
plastic,trash, dirt and junk,
not to mention
empty promises
and lies ?

Not all my friends are so lucky.

And so,
as my thoughts gather
and spiral up
with great speed,
I shut my eyes,
lie down on a cool floor,
and say a thank you
to Him who made me,
and gave me a wonderful family. 


(Just in case you see my
ears perking up,
its all those thoughts
flowing out
in ordered file. ...
we never rain things on people.....)

Sigh. Will these bipeds never learn ?

The Monsoon, b. Him, c Shail-in-the-garden

My FB and blogger friend Shail Mohan, lives in Trivandrum, Kerala (India's Southernmost state), that gets the honor every single year of being the first to welcome the Southwest Monsoon .

This year it was a bit late. Naturally, when it actually made landfall , she was out there in her garden , clicking the reactions of the greenery. You can see  the entire gamut of reactions, here.

This amazing click by Shail, besides being eminently prizeworthy, actually made me think about Someone Powerful and Omnipresent Up There.....

(Photo by Shail Mohan) 

Immense and extravagant
scapularity**
and
with clavicles**
to carry the world,
He sits,
alert and observant,
holding the monsoons
in his palms
miraculously
against gravity,
as only He can....

There has been so much
sin,
killing ,
cheating
destruction,
and disrespect
in His name,
that he wonders
if they deserve
to have a good monsoon.

And then he hears
the clouds clamouring,
unable to bear the weight
of the expectations;
the man in the fields,
sitting on his haunches,
looking up,
unable to look at the drying crop,
and
so many ordinary folks
who trudge miles
to drink the water
from wells He fills up
every year.

Loud thunder,
the wind in a whoosh,
he straightens the arm
to sweep the rain
for a six,
as a lady in Trivandrum,
who's been secretly
clicking him,
rushes out
to take a happy monsoon catch.

The Monsoon, b. Him, c Shail....

:-))


** shoulder muscles

Monsoon joy .......

A blog and FB friend Uma Srini shared this Paul Coelho stuff as a Wall photo on FB.

While this may be attractive for someone who is habituated to gently drizzling rain, fashionably useless matching designer umbrellas, orderly rule obsessed traffic,  smooth roads without pockmarks, and a crowd that doesnt bother to look as a lady , with possibly the lower part of her outfit missing, strikes a ballet pose , as she leaps across a wet road,  jumping across roads in India during the rains , is a different kettle of fish. 

They say "To enjoy the rainbow, first enjoy the rain..."

Learn how .

Kapdaa famine frocks,
DevAnand caps covering the chakshu,
Pointless matching small umbrella,
a hand in the pocket,
(clutching a cell phone)
which would have
otherwise
if held out,
put her in balance.

What's so great about
jumping in pointy shoes
on a road
devoid
of
decent potholes,
overtaking rickshaws,
whizzing bikes
and roaring buses
suddenly changing lanes ?

You want to enjoy rains ?
Have garam chai,
pakodas,
and roasted corn
as the rain
drips through
your plastered hair
into the cup,
making it run over
with monsoon joy......

Tree and Empathy.....

The Sewri Mudflats on Mumbai's eastern seaboard. Normally home to thousands of flamingoes, who migrate every year from somewhere and arrive to enhance their population, eggs safely warm and hatchable in the damp mangrove soil.  In some other season, egrets visit, to check the place out....

 Blogger friend Magiceye  just posted this photograph as part of the "ABC Wednesday -L" series, calling it "Lonesome at the Sewri Mudflats".

Besides  suggesting some words,which I have added to the wonderful photo , it also gave me some other ideas , just so that the egret shouldn't feel it is alone....

Trying something new :-)

The Bird's mind view.....

Some folks think of great music when they see photographs like this .

Like my blog friend
Kalyani, who suddenly remembered Aarti Ankalikar from the film 'Sardari Begum' here - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQ_y6IhhGhY&feature=player_embedded...

And then there are folks, who, with the impending monsoon, and the amazing shapes in the photograph, think of more mundane, boring stuff, eg clogged storm drains, the scourge of Mumbai in the monsoons.

I guess you must learn to take the good with the bad......:-)


(photo by Kalyani)
लहानपणापासून
त्या झाडाला एक सवय होती;
सकाळची पाण्याची,
आजूबाजूची जागा स्वच्छ करण्याची
गडबड उरकली ,
कि एकदा
आकाश्याच्या आरश्यात बघायचं,
थोडी पानं इकडे तिकडे अड्जस्त करायची
फांद्या हलवून आळस द्यायचा ,
छप्रावरच्या पक्ष्या कडे बघून नाक मुरडायच....


एके दिवशी
आरश्यात स्वतः ऐवजी
भारदस्त काळे मेघ दिसले ,
गडगडले ,
आणि झाडाला काही कळायच्या आत
छप्रावरचा पक्षी हसला आणि म्हणाला ,
मुन्सिपालतीनि ह्या वर्षी गटार साफ नाही केली ,
आता बस पाण्यात ,
मी कसा ढगांवर जातो,
आणि तुझी मजा बघतो बघ !

Some habits
die hard.

Since childhood,
every morning,
post the hurry and flurry
of watering and cleaning,
Madame Tree,
freshly bathed,
would look into
the Sky mirror,
adjust her leaves just so,
and preen;
followed by
a langorous stretching
of branches
in a mild
movement of air,
designed to cook a snook
at the little bird on the roof,
watching all this avidly.

But one day,
when she looked,
the Sky mirror
showed,
instead of green,
black clouds,
imperiously rumbling;
and before
Madam Tree could figure out,
the bird on the roof
smirked, and said,
"The municipality
has not cleaned
the storm drains this year....
so sit and enjoy your time
in the floods,
while I soar
high ,
way up above the clouds,
watching all your fun....."

A Day in the life of ........

Those potholed roads lie flat in apathy,
As she lumbers across carrying the load,
Of humanity,
Revving up with a sneeze,
A delighted exhaust blast,
She siddles up to a busstop.



Tired faces at windows,
Nose on the bar,
watching the battle to enter,
The right to a Square Foot of Steel,
As other feet fight ,
umbrellas as weapons,
Dripping the pollution of the skies.


Some polite moves,
Some leching eyes,
Body contracting to one side,
She clutches her purse,
and the child holding on to schoolbooks,
Wet behind the ears,
Shoes stepping on her sandaled feet,
The toe ring hurts.

And the brown uniform,
taps his punch on the seat rod,
Calls out , and beckons....
"Sir, cant you see,
This is a ladies seat,
Ma'am, come forward..."
And she puts the child ahead,
squeezes against briefcases,
and limbs
Clutching her purse
Getting ahead.

A sudden pothole,
A surprise jerk,
They fall backwards,
They've lost their place,
but fall unhurt,
tumbling over a base,
Cushioned by the humanity of Mumbai,
Packing the monsoon buses.

They dust themselves,
tucking in dishevelled thoughts,
Collect their bags
and Thoughts,
Clutching the rods once again
Ruffling the hair of a child,
Who stands again with his mother,
Facing another schoolday,
Another bus,
Another crowd,
Another rain....
The same life...........