Jackfruits and Empathy

My friend Deepak Amembal is very lucky in one respect. He travels widely to various far flung places in India on his Royal Enfield bike, and gets to taste local delicacies.

When he stays put in Mumbai, the goodies from all over the country, somehow reach him. It is not as if you do not get them in Mumbai. But things from home taste different.

Like this jack fruit. Growing during its lifetime as a huge amorphous green thorny mass, oddly hanging onto its mother tree, it comes into its own , when it is cut, peeled, and little golden pieces with individual seeds are harvested from it .

A special Konkan product, a  product of the coastal area , which has seen unseasonal rains and widespread destruction of crop this year.  And like the people of Kokan, tough outside, but with a heart of gold .....

A capture of such a heart by Deepak Amembal....

उच्चपदस्थ , सनातनी काटेरी कोकणी वल्ली , वयात येउन सुद्धा मातुल वृक्षास घट्ट पकडून लोम्ब्काळत जगातील ये जा हिरवी सृष्टी , आणि पावसाचा हैदोस बघत संथ पणे आयुष्य घालवतो . पण कोकणी माणसा सारखाच हा बाहेरून कडक माणूस आतून खूप मउ असतो, आणि सर्व आम्बालोकाची दुर्दशा बघतो आणि हळ्हळ्तो . अवेळी पाउस , वाहून गेलेली झाडे, वार्यांनी पाडलेले वृक्ष , आणि अनाथ झालेली फळे. कधीतरी मुंबईची मंडळी , कौतुकाने हाताला तेल लाउन ह्या कडक व्यक्तीच्या मनात खोलात बघतात , वरवरची आवरण बाजूला करतात , "अगोबाई, छान 'कापा' निघाला की …." अस म्हणतात, आणि ह्या कडक फणसाच्या अंतरंगातून , डोळे भरून चकाकणारे गरे एक एक करून बाहेर निघतात

This Kokani personage, highly placed , traditionally conservative, tough and thorny in attitude and looks, still Oedipusly clings to branches of the Mother tree observing calmly the world go by, amidst a monsoon storm playing havoc around it. But like most folks from Kokan, this hardliner is actually a softie inside, and holds back tears as he thinks of the mango orchards devastated by unseasonal rain. Now in Mumbai, he submits to the traditional plucking and cleaning by hands smeared with oil. They unravel and peel, and look deep into his troubled mind, delighting at the discovery of al dente fruit inside. It is just that every single piece of the  golden fruit shines bright like eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Happiness is.......

Actually, it is mutual .   Hot comfort food, just off the fire, glowing  in anticipation, and  a  person, fantasizing about spicy morsels , full of wholesome taste, stories and memories , sliding down a throat that has been pining  and waiting for it. 

Things get even more exciting if it is winter.

Which it is, Down Under.  At the moment .

My friend , Just a Girl from Aamchi Mumbai  , to whom , home is now Australia,  waxes ecstatic about enjoying hot sambaar rice with Poppadams (papads)  , on a cold winter's day.    As she says, " The frisky Sambhar covers the very eager Rice in all its glory till they become one. And then when you crush a crunchy Poppadum on top of them, the union almost becomes complete. Your fingers bring them together in a perfect symphony and your eager mouth is more than ready to gulp down this perfection one bite at a time till your soul feels complete. If this is not heaven, what is? "

Do check out her blog here.    The photograph below by JAGFAM herself !

She sits
excited
adorning herself
with golden slivers
of onions,
daal spots,
and a
plethora of
veggie ornaments
much in demand.

A final spray
of Sambaar Compact
and Foundation,
a winking tamarind
slipping in sideways,
and she is ready,
avidly nudging the ladle,
who has promised a meeting
with the great idol,
Bhaat.

A slow motion arrival
a la Bollywood Films,
an impatiently steaming
agitated bhaat,
about to crib to the
papad villains,
and she falls
gently, with her veggie
maids of honor
on to the bhaat.

The great Milan,
watched by the
Papadian Villain,
who throws his lot
in with them,
as
"Tujhe dekha to yeh jaanaa sanam"
plays in the back ground.

A sudden shadow,
shades of Jurassic
as huge fingers appear
to grab them all.

The humans are coming!
The humans are coming!

And the papad,
limp
having fought along with the
bhaat and sambar
nudges a devastated drumstick,
sighs,
and says,
"You know,
it doesn't matter how life ends;
what matters
is how happy
you made everyone around you...."

The Golden 'Girls' .....

In  a world full of  corpulent, aging , so called powerful folks,  their doubtful legacies to the young ones around them, their greed for power regardless of ethics,  and all of them regardless of party affiliation,  showing amazing inflexibility of body, attitude and thought except when it comes to money and votes, news about Oinam Rashi Devi, aged over 75 yrs , hailing from Manipur, comes like a sudden breath of fresh air, in a compartment loaded with pushy, sweaty folks in a office time fast local to CST ....

Here she is, in action , at 75+ , during 35th National Masters Athletic Championship  in Coimbatore on February 25 2014. She came second in the long jump.

(Winner of the gold medal was another 75 year old,  retired professor Vijay Lakshmi S Nair  whose performance was equally impressive.)

Way to go, ladies !
 
Oinam Rashi Devi  and Vijay Lakshmi S Nair , may you jump higher, longer, and win many medals.  You are an inspiration to all of us . 

The young ones
must decide
who to "follow".

It is not as easy
as a tweet
or a click.

For some,
silver in age,
it is a life
of responsibilities,
hard work,
and practice ,dedication
and true effort,
never ignoring
those that depend on them;
a life
of reaching higher
in the mind and body.

For others,
a fake silver
in a true age,
a life of
declarations, announcements,
false assurances,
stiff and fake attitudes
that bend
only in the presence of money,
manoevered awards,
and
equally fake folks
paying respects to them
as wise elders

True.

The young ones
must decide
who to "follow".

Mind Blooms.........

Flowers blooming in various balconies of Mumbai, welcoming the monsoon, and my friend Amit Amembal  suggested that all those who click flowers,  post 3 clicks of their own to celebrate, as part of the Flower Picture Challenge. .

Another friend Nandan Tavanandi accepted the challenge, and posted a wonderful tableau  of flowers on the Kaas Plateau, near Satara , about 100 kms from Pune .

The Kaas Plateau or Pathaar, has been declared by UNESCO to be a  Biodiversity World Heritage Site, and has more than 800 different varieties of flowers , which form a "carpet" of flowers during the monsoons.

As for me, the flowers are all in the mind, and sometimes emerge as poems....

कास च्या पाठारावरची फुलं, सर्व ऋतूंची मजा चाखतात, कारण त्यांना कोणी "अरे उमल रे, वेळ झाली", किंवा "त्या शेजारच्या फुलाशी जरा बेतांनी बोल हो , कुठल्या झाडाचं आहे कुणाला माहित ?" असे कधीच बोलले नाहीये. गुच्छांमध्ये बसणारी फुलं मतलबी बनतात, गुलाबाला बघून टरकतात, गुलछडी च्या शेजारी उभ राहून भाव खातात , आणि बारीक सारीक पानांना तुच्छ लेखतात, आणि कुठेही उभे राहायची वेळ आली कि त्यांना सपोर्ट लागतो ..... जसं काही मुलांना आई वडील सेलफोन देतात, आणि आयुष्यात ही मुल गाडीत मागे बसून नुस्ती बटणं दाबायला शिकतात आणि मन बोथट बनवतात ... मुलांनी कसं कास पठारावरच्या फुलांसारखं निरागस , आणि सर्व ऋतूत आनंदाने उंच झोका घेत राहावं ! .

Blooming unrestrained in streaks of delightful color the flower children at the Kaas Plateau enjoying and thriving through life's many seasons. No one to to remind them saying "Time to bloom, folks !" or to nudge in alarm, saying, "Don't go overboard in friendship with the neighbor.... who knows which sap of which tree flows freely within ?" And those in bouquets posing just so, get intimidated by Roses, then boss around over Nishigandhas, and start rubbishing leaves, all the while not realizing that they themselves need support to stand... Like small kids given cell phones by parents learn to lean back in the car and press buttons to get things done, something that simply dumbs the curious mind. One so wishes that they be like the flowers of the Kaas Plateau; innocent, colors brimming in the mind, and with an urge to fly high when the season arrives ...

A Place in the Sun .....

Beaches in Goa are always a source of excitement. Not just to those who delight in changing their skin color by lying on the sand, but those who hover around to watch the process, so to speak.

This crocodile arrived , possibly from the Chappora river that empties into the sea, on the Morjim beach, about 30 kms away from the capital of Panjim,  and the entire beach dynamics changed.

She too is visiting, would love to relax,  with a dip in the sea now and then, and she even smiles.

But does anyone come to watch ? No. Because everyone is terrified.

Kya Baat hai !   She has he whole beach to herself.  Without special security.    I guess she would make an excellent politician.  Just saying ....

Ah. Maybe it's a he.

(photo by local resident Nilesh Wagkar)

Popular beaches,
a rush of folks
dubbed Fair and Lovely,
waiting to stretch out
and relax
on the sand
trying
to desperately
change the color
of their skin,
and another set
of folks
sight see in a rush
to watch the anatomies.

What a telling comment
that
no one rushes
to see
a dark scaled
big toothed Chappora native,
unconcerned about looks,
saunter by
to enjoy some time
comfortably stretched out
on the same sand.

I guess
some folks
are comfortable
in their own skins,
while some
think
that things will change
if they flaunt theirs
in the Sun......

Cornflakes Victories.....

In a huge landmark departure, from his usual, mouth watering postings, of amazing traditional breakfasts cooked by his better half, my friend Deepak Amembal, actually posted a photograph of cornflakes , squinting in the sun, probably sighing in relief, and simply lapping it all up,  in a bowl of milk, laced with honey.

It really is all about , "They also serve who only stand and wait".....  in a jar on the kitchen shelves.

Like I have always felt, our food and anatomies, always offer us lessons to learn.

However, there is a certain breed , drunk on power, that never learns.

Hmm.  Guess ?
 

After a long,
strenuous and difficult war
with assorted dosas,
utthappas,
idlies,
upmas,
thalipeeths
and misals,
the cornflakes,
with inside support of milk,
the occasion sweetened by honey,
gets its day in the Sun.

The interesting thing is
that it totally believes in the milk...

So much for our fellows in Delhi to learn, na ?

Citizen Rose.....

Gardens, like Life, are never about landscaping and show.    Or an obsession with everything being photogenic.

Like each of us,  the flowers that grow along , say, walking paths,  are a diverse mixture of color, flower frequency, physical appearance, proclivity to bending, stubbornness, and ability to slog.  Like each of us, some of them are social, and some reek superiority and some simply pretend.  Some simply face whatever fate has in store for them, keep working with hope and no expectations , and cheerfully rejoice when by chance , something nice happens.

And they all have, what can only be called a human background. A growth story.  

My friend Zephyr Nag clicked this photo of a rose , as it bloomed and emerged from the hoi polloi greens  , to one side of her early morning walking path.

Why ?  She says, I have the reason spot-on.    :-)

It's tough facing masses of crotons and ferns, smug in their cutting mobility and wanderings. Sometimes, it is difficult facing the jasmines climbing high on society bowers, and looking down in superior fragrant attitude. And so often , it is about the unruly bougainvilleas crowding life spaces, flaunting their variety and fake combinations claiming unity in "color". And so she sits, quiet and busy in the hedges, watching so many go by, and quietly prepares for her day, sharing with her "bud"dies whatever the Earth grants her. Yes, it is a thorny life. Sometimes, too dry, because the sky often controls its tears. But hope is eternal, and she struggles her way out a healthy pink from her efforts at exercise trying to emerge from the mass of greens; looks up at the Sun, and smiles, and says to her "bud"dies, " See, waiting has its rewards; I knew Zephyr would finally come this way on her morning walk."..

काही हरहुन्नरी रंगीबेरंगी क्रोटन्स, आपल्याच नक्षीत कौतुकात बुडलेली पाने, आणि "पाय टेकिन तिथे चिकटीन" अशी मातीला धमकी . आणि मग कधी कधी कमनीय प्रकारे वेलावर चढणारी आणि सुंदर श्वास सोडत ललनांच्या प्रिय गज्र्यांचे स्वप्न बघत एकात एक मिसळणारी, इतर सर्वांकडे बघून पाकळी उडवणारी जाई जुई ... कधीतरी एका बेशिस्त क्षणी कशाचीही फिकीर न करता जागेवर आपला कब्जा करण्यासाठी लोकशाहीचे नाटक करत सर्व रंग एकात एक मिसळून अतोक्रमण करत सर्वत्र बेताल पसरणारा गुंड बोगंविल्ला ... अशीच एका बाजूला ती दिवस काढते , पानांमध्ये सावलीत रेलून जमिनी तून जे मिळेल ते गोड मानत आपल्या सह कळ्याना त्यातला वाटा देत, राहील त्यासाठी देवाचे आभार मानत हळु हळु मोठी होते, आणि आपल्याच भविष्याच्या पाकळ्यात गुंडाळली जाते . जग हे काटेरीच , आणि कधीकधी अवकाशही कोर्डे अश्रू ढाळ्ते . पण तिने आयुष्यात खूप काटे बघितलेत, सहन केलेत , आणि प्रबळ इच्छाशक्तीच्या जोरावर ती हळु हळु हिरव्या पानांच्या पडद्यातून, अतीव श्रमाने चेहर्यावर गुलाबी लेउन उमलत बाहेर येते , सकाळच्या ताज्या सूर्याकडे बघून हस्ते आणि म्हणते , " कळ्यांनो , वाट बघत काम करत राहायचं …. आपल्याला मनातल मिळतं ! मला माहित होत आज सकाळी झेफीर मला भेटायला यॆइल आणि फ़ोटो काढेल …."

Mountains of your Mind

This photograph, by my friend Deepak Amembal, of two monkeys trekking and rock climbing at the Kanheri Caves in the Sanjay Gandhi National Park,in northwest Mumbai,  suddenly seemed more than relevant, since trekking in the mountains and forts  has been a new hobby recently developed  in the family.

It isn't always about physical prowess, agility and stuff.  Those who organize such treks do not only emphasize logistics, but also lay out rules that have to do with helping preserve the natural environment, not leaving trash around, and  respecting the cultural sensibilities of the rural folks who live around these place and assist you with food, shelter , directions etc. 

Unfortunately, the more we develop, the more careless we become; as is visible in such caves close to suburban Mumbai areas.

"Jumps and tails",

this group of trekkers

and climbers,

enjoying

this monsoon's

trekking season.

They meet up

at Kanheri Caves, SGNP,

unconcerned with

trains, buses, jeeps,

never carry lunch,

or water, or snacks.

No backpacks,

no belts,

and no fancy shoes,

their only camera

is their eyes,

as they swiftly clamber up

the rock face,

without ladders, ropes or chains

teaching each other

by example.

A step on to the peak,

they look down,

and wonder.

Why the bipeds,

despite such a developed cortex,

never learned

to control its trash

and where it goes..

Yes. The trash.
Human and otherwise.

A Very Special Matchstick.....

Most poetry on this blog is visually inspired.  But in rare cases,  a friend posts something in prose, that is actually sheer poetry in thought.

My friend Bhavana Nissima posted :

"Matchsticks in a matchbox. Some catch fire on first strike and light a candle or lamp. Some catch fire on second or third strike. Few catch fire but are blown out by wind before they can light a candle. Some cannot light because the wick is damp or there is no oil or it is way too burnt out. In a quiet room, with candles closely stacked together, couple of matchsticks manage to light several of them. And then there is this one. You strike her repeatedly but no fire. Either because the sides have worn out or her edges have been blunted or your hands were wet. The more you strike, the more the edges peel off and she wilts. You fling her away saying “Poor quality matchstick.”
Was she?

Makes you think.  About the flung one.    And you have an answer.  In verse. 

Some
supremely perfect
in an imperfect world,
make a perfect grab
of every perfect opportunity.

Some learn by observation,
and mindlessly emulate.

A few try,
but easily give up,
saying
they are in the wrong place
at the wrong time.

A few
cowtow
to leaders
who play
mass lighting psychology,
teaching nothing
but pretending to succeed.

But there is one,
who has watched it all,
aware
of her genetic shortcomings.

She learns.
She tries.
Like no one else has before.
And then
suddenly finds herself
on a heap of rejection.

In this world,
the strikers are
thoughtlessly blind.

And dumb.

It is not about
perfect sticks
striking hard,
but about
creating a level striking field
so everyone can shine.

Paise ka Sawal

Nothing tells your age , as  perfectly as currency which you used in your school days, which is no longer valid today.  And when friends post photos as if these were relics.

My friend Prasad Paranjape and his friend Vijay Patil,  just posted captures of the old paisa, and the even older "1 pice with the hole".

I have grown up using these.  Two of these 1 paisa coins (white) got you half a bhel outside Peshwe Park in Pune, and we would even share that, in those unadulterated days.  The round copper naya paisa came after 1957, when everything became decimal, and maths became easy for us school children. 

Clearly explains why we leaned more tables, like those of 16, than the current generation.  4 paisa = 1 anna, 16 annas = 1 rupee.

And as some folks go gaga over the paisa n FB, one ponders over the fate of the torn Rs 10 currency in hand ......

काही लोकं खिश्यात क्रेडिट कार्ड, हातात कॅमेरा, आणि क्लिक करायला शिव्शिव्णारि बोटं सांभाळत जुन्या नाण्यांच्या लेण्यात ट्रेक ला जातात . आणि काही लोकं इतकी जुनी असतात कि त्यांचे लहानपण त्या लेण्यातच घालवलेले असतं ; गणित करून करून हि लोक खलास होतात , भोक वाला पैसा आठवत आजच्या फाटलेल्या नोटा जपतात , आणि लेणी त्यांची मजा बघत आधुनिक ट्रेकर्स न पोज देत फेसबुक वर अंतर्धान पावतात

Credit cards stuffed in deep pockets, camera in hand, fingers itching to click, they trek into the Old currency caves to admire the Paisa in its various avatars. Some folks, ecstatic at having spent a childhood in those  wonderful old Currency Caves, yet immersed and fatigued in rupee-anna-paisa math , clutch close their current torn currency notes, fondly remembering the "Pice with a hole"... Meanwhile, All the antique "paisas" in the currency caves, delight in posing for the clicking trekkers....