Flies of Tadoba.....

My friend Anuradha Shankar, is a very successful and talented travel blogger, who recently visited the Tadoba Tiger Reserve in Central India.  It is all about the masses waiting breathlessly quiet, standing in jeeps, waiting for the Tiger to saunter by, powerfully oblivious to everything, possibly on his way to and from from some riverbed.  

Such a show of power.  Maybe some learn from this. 

But my friend Anuradha sees things where others do not. Like this fly that kept tagging along  . Much like the masses of folks who tag along for meetings of leaders in a world we all know.

And she clicked  and gave it its first moment , maybe not in the sun,  but on FB.

Here.

I fail to understand
the mind of some.

Public gathering in droves,
standing atop jeeps,
albeit silently,
to click celebrity-style,
some leader types,
who think they are kings,
wandering through their realm
a roar here,
a bite there,
a threatening look,
a display of teeth,
and a languorous,
yet sometimes hungry trip
to the river
to quench a carnivorous thirst
for power.

Folks like me,
with not much
to call one's own,
no house,
no land,
no drinking water,
almost no rights,
a constant threat
of those with sharp
money lending beaks,
and those who troubleshoot
for the boss
as swatters;
unlike the leaders,
they drive me out
when i go looking
for food,
and often need to scavenge.

Someone actually clicked me.

Ordinary me. No ADHAR.
Card or anything else.

It was unbelievable.

And I just HAD to look at myself
in the shiny tabletop,
to see
whether
something about me
had changed
and what is it that someone saw.

Smallkhamb.....

MallaKhamb, a combination of two words in Marathi, that meant wrestler and pole respectively, were probably the earliest gyms, in Maharashtra , if not India. You did not need fancy contraptions, complicated clothes , and electricity to simulate your walking on a road.

You had fixed pole, moving pole and rope varieties of Mallakhaamb, and it was a Mr Deodhar during the reign of the Peshwas in Maharashtra, who reintroduced this art to the public as a fitness and training thing, in the face of some very British sports with balls, bats,rackets,pavillions, sandwiches and drinks.

My friend Mukta Atrey, captured a dragonfly doing a similar exercise.  On a campus full of assorted  large quadrupeds and where much of the games that the British introduced, are still played.

The aforementioned Mr. Deodhar ,  had a tough time getting it all together, and today , this sport is looking for its place in the pantheon of world sports.

The dragonfly had it much easier.  It just wandered around Mukta's garden and got clicked.  

I so wish it was a damselfly. Then one  could have said #despitebeingawoman    ....   

Whacked balls,
raised bats,
flying shuttles,
running kicks,
throwing spears,
leaping over poles,
and going round and round
all just to
fling a metal ball
as far as you can;
the sport of Malkhaamb
never stood a chance
in the face of it all,
despite
its tough postures,
amazing balance
and
its shining oily grace.

So it is
with a sense of wonder
that you capture,
in a land
populated with bovine folks,
barking dudes,
swinging simians,
slithering reptiles,
and roaring kings,
the dainty dragonfly
practicing
the moving pole Malkhaamb
its body slathered
with the nectar
just imbibed.

It took one of the Deodhars
of the Peshwas
to bring to light
the beauty
and discipline of the Malkhamb,
in the face of
the British games.

Mukta Atrey
just managed it in a click here....

The First Kande Pohe War

Half a century and more ago, women completing school was considered the right time to initiate a matrimonial search, replete with the Kande Pohe "seeing" sessions, with a prechecked groom-elect meeting the bride-elect as she came in, with a tray of Kande Pohe, with the entire family watching the impending eye contact with eagle eyes.

The matrimonial search was often multicity and involved uncles travelling with nieces   to participate in the proceedings.

My friend Shruti Nargundkar of Melbourne , writes the story of one such amazingly gifted 16 year old, who then travelled to Mumbai with a very perceptive uncle, who as such, delivered her from this Kande Pohe mafia, so to speak.

He observed her tucking in with great relish into sabudana khichadi with cucumbers, something totally in keeping with the creative girl.   

Clearly, the Kande Pohe Wars were over. The Sabudana Khicahdi with cucumbers had won.  

Read On. (Note : Some things in Marathi are clearly untranslatable into English)

Shruti's amazing post here. (Recipe there)

गिरगावातल्या एका बरणीतले पेणहून आलेले पोहे, तिला बघून आपल्याच्च महत्वात गुरफटले; कांदे बटाट्याञ्च्या सह त्यांच्यावर पडलेली जबाबदारी, चहाच्या पुडीला करून दिलेली आठवण , विळीवर नारळाची झालेली खरवड , आणि अचानक आपल्याशीच हसत एका "वर" व्यक्तीला भेटून, मनात थोडी शंका येउन परत आलेले मामा। संगीतात रममाण , हातात अनेक रंग पकडून आयुष्य चितार्णर्रि , आपल्या पदन्यासाने सर्वाना मोहित करणारी, आणि आकाशाला भिडलेल्या कल्पनाशक्तीची नक्षी आपल्या रोज च्या आयुष्यात रंगवणार्या ह्या सोळा वर्षीय मुलीला एक् रंगीय पोह्यात, आपले वर्चस्व गाजवणार्या बटाट्यात कांद्याबरोबर चुपचाप आयुष काढणे कसे जमणार ? तिच्यासाठी फुलून येणारे साबुदाणे, पाठी आयुष्भर उभे राहणारे दाण्याचे कूट , हवा हवा सा थंडावा पसरवून तेलात सुधा "इश्श , मिर्चीताई, तेल किती गरम असेल ह्याची कल्पनाच न्हवती , जर सांगायच कि हो !" म्हणून, सबुदाण्याञ्च्या स्वागताला सज्ज होणार्या काकड्या, आणि सर्वांवर तथास्तु म्हणत शिम्पड्नारे लीम्बुरस, नारळ अन कोथिम्बिरीच्या अक्षता…. सर्व जण एका ताटलीत जमा होतात आणि तिच्याकडे अपेक्षेने बघतात . हर्षभराने चमचाभर तोंडात टाकून, घरची आठवण काढत डोळ्यात चांदणे साठवून ती मामांकडे बघते . आणि कुतुहलाने विचारणार्या सर्वांना मामा सांगतात, " पिवळी अष्टपुत्री साडी तर सगळीच नेसतात, पण हिला तर आमची हिरव्या चंद्रकोरी आणि सोनेरी बुट्ट्याञ्चि चंदेरीच किती शोभून दिसते न ?"

Pohas from Pen, drunk in their own importance, directing the onions and potatoes into action, nudging tea leaves into a boiling life, as a coconut shreds itself to pieces in desperation at the impending social event; and an Uncle returns after previewing a candidate perhaps, scheduled for matrimony. And then a waiting niece, wrapped in the music of her life, dancing to the beat, painting the skies with her brilliant imagination all of sixteen, now with him in the big city for the big event. Not for her, the monochromatics of a subservient poha, being lorded over by a Potato dada with Onion chamchas, and the Uncle turns to find her imbibing in joy from a bowl of Kakdi Sabudana Khichdi, much more her style. Sabudana blooming specially for her, faithfully supported by crushed, roasted, but undeterred peanuts, and finely diced cool cucumbers going "Aiiyo" as they fall into hot oil, meeting the mirchies, and then pull themselves up to receive the mixed up sabudanas. A sprinkling of lemon juice, cilantro and coconut, a great and stirring finale, and she pops a spoonful and savours it amidst memories of home, as the tears converge to become stars in her eyes. Like the Uncle said, " Everyone wears the yellow Ashtaputri wedding saree, but special ones simply sparkle in off white chanderis with green newmoon prints and gold dots, don't they ?"

Music in the time of Shikran....

Sometimes my friend Deepak takes a break form clicking hot photos of dosas, uthappas, and omelettes at breakfast, and decides to click the all time faithful banana, biding its time in a fruit basket.

Not used to appearing in the media like other Page 3 fancy fruits, sometimes, it hides behind a veil or ghunghat (in hindi) , before it is ready to face the world.

And possibly only emerges, when it ready to combine with milk, to create "shikran" , the perennial childhood favourite of all small kids and even some grown adults in Maharashtra.

Something written in appreciation , to be sung to the tune of another Bollywood favourite, "Ghoonghat ke aad se dilbar ka ...."  ( a link to this song below the poem)

  

घूँघट की आड़ से केले का
पकना अधूरा रहता है
जब तक ना पड़े,दीपक की नज़र
सिंगार अधूरा रहता है
घूँघट की आड़ से केले का

घूँघट की आड़ से केले का
पकना अधूरा रहता है
जब तक ना मिले, दूध से नज़र
शिकरण अधूरा रहता है
घूँघट की आड़ से दिलबर का

On being a Kairi in Mayapur ...

My friend Braja Sorenson, lives in Mayapur , West Bengal, amidst lush greens, smells of the river, call of the boatmen,  temple bells, blowing on conch shells, and the fragrance of green raw mangoes (kairees) wafting in through her window.

She got her pickles started in early May , and put up a delicious posting, which I happened to see just now.  Salting, sunning, spicing and a final oil .

I guess it is the right time to taste a pickle just about to get set for its year long sojourn on Braja's shelves.....   (now showing from L to R   : an age old pickle, the recent pickle, the second recent pickle) .

The young ones,
so green,
desperate to grow up,
and now
delighted to skip
into the gardener's basket,
a coming of age in Mayapur
heralded
by hot weather,
evening breezes
and humidity soaring
in applause.

Sitting with the
salty ones,
in the Sun,
behind a muslin purdah,
generating so much
juicy gossip,
and now being grown up ,
absorbing it all.
     A mellowing middle age,
a few puffs and wrinkles,
a slight softening of attitudes,
and the need
for bringing in
some cinnamon,clove
and spice
in your life.

The dowager ones
on the shelf watch it all,
as the kairees fall
over one another
enamoured
of their new Italian Jar Domicile.

"I hope they learn
how to age well
in body as well as in mind."
says a dowager;
"It isn't about
being green and frisky,
and fooling with the
chillies day after day.
It is all about
meditating
in a jar,
in fellowship
with the others,
Vipassana for a year,
and then
offering yourself
happily
to the lady
who has just started
on her curd-rice....."