Bozoical thoughts on Education

Bozo, Mumbai's only dog-with-his-own-blog is hugely excited.  The child of the house who rescued him from an unforgiving life on the streets, is coming home on a holiday!

Naturally, Bozo looks back, at growing up with the child, and thinks of the wonderful days. Both of them have had different types of education, and  have moved on and they take great pride in each other.

He waits , breathlessly in the balcony,  in anticipation, of a familiar voice and figure , and his mentor Magiceye, simply clicked the anticipation in the eyes... 

(On a side note, Bozo is just grateful he didn't attend Mumbai University , with all the things appearing in the papers these days....)

A lot of folks think
I don't understand
language
because I never went to school.

We chaps,
have a built in Right To Education(RTE)
and thankfully,
do not need Parliament
to sit , argue and  fight about
SSA (Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan)
which
we fellows think
is actually,
SSA (Some Straight Answers)....


I have had a holistic education,
with no examinations and degrees
learning
English, Konkani and Marathi
in realtime,
complete
with the related actions.

Sometimes,
I simply hear and I understand...

Life events
unfold around me
and I watch.

A special interest
in the child
who brought me home,
grew up,
and then went on
to seek new horizons,
now on the way home.

I've been out with Deepak
to stock up on mangoes,
I've heard phone calls
discussing the arrival,
and I have,
despite the doctor's advice,
bounded around here and there
behind folks
preparing
for the homecoming...

There's joy in the air,
and
stuff happening
in the kitchen;
folks on the phone,
beaming smiles.

Sometimes
the excitement is too much,
and I do mess up
wagging my tail furiously....

But we dogs
have learnt to wag tails
instead of tongues,
and
if someone
gets angry with us,
didn't someone say
"To err is Human, to forgive, Canine ?"

Two hearts.....

My blog and FB friend Kavita Saharia of Guwahati, in the North Eastern state of Assam in India, participates in a Friday blog ritual called "This moment ".

As she says " A single photo — no words — capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember."  This is what you post on a Friday; no words, but just a photograph that has touched you.


This is something she posted today.   


Those who are no good at photography, must often make do with words.


(photograph by Kavita Saharia)

Clutching
his best friend
close,
he quietly bends
to rub
his running nose
against his fingers,
as he runs
down the path
to the fields.

He has seen his ma
carrying his baby brother so.

Somewhere
below a tree
she unwraps
the rotis and onions,
and sets out another plate
as she watches him
arrive,
eyes bright,
the pup against his heart....

Three-Stone stoves of life....

My blogger friend Harekrishnaji, visits all kinds of nice eating places across various towns, from 5-star buffets to places where they organically cook native food of my state. This is his depiction of some fragrant rice cooking on a typical 3-stone stove, fired by wood.

While folks cook this way on camping trips and stuff, for some people across the country, this is the only way they know, because its their only source of fuel.......

The original poem was in Marathi. As usual, the English effort follows.


आयुष्याच्या चुलीचे तीन दगड,
आईवडील,
सासूसासरे ,
आणि नवरा ;
कधी चटके, कधी धूर ,
कधी फोडणीची तडतड ,
कधी आनंदाने उकळणारी आमटी,
एखादं भाजणार बोट ,
शिजणार्या आंबेमोहोर चा सुवास,
चुलीत शिजणारे छोटे छोटे बटाटे ,
कधीतरी एखादं जळक लाकूड ढकलावं लागत ,
कधी कधी मोठा ज्वाळ होतो ,
कधी तर फुंकणीने
कुणाच्यातरी हातावर फुंकर घालावी लागते,
अगदी डोळे पाणावतात ,
आणि जेव्हा ती
कौतुकाने आपल्या मुलांना
गरम भाकर्या करून वाढते
तेव्हा
चुलीचे तिन्ही दगड
दीर्घ श्वास घेउन,
ज्वालांना गप्प करून
हळू हळू सुखावून
शांत होतात

A raging Fire
amidst
the
3 Rocks and Stones
of Life:
her in-laws,
her parents,
and
the husband........

A few burns, some smoke,
perhaps
a sizzling
hot dressing;
maybe
a curry boiling in glee,
suddenly
a finger singes,
as the
Ambemohur rice cooks,
and
small baby potatoes
bake and brown
amidst the stones.

Sometimes
a need
to shove in
a length of burning wood,
occasionally
a sudden conflagration
in burning gold,
and someone
quietly bends,
and blows
air,
on a hurting hand,
amidst the watering eyes.....


She turns back,
to
make fresh bhakris,
hot off the gridle,
for her kids....


With a deep sigh
the fire relaxes,
and
the three rocks
nod in appreciation,
as the
little ones
polish away their plates...

Sunflowers & Meduvadas

About 15 years ago , we were travelling towards Aurangabad by train, and early morning saw our train chugging past big fields of sunflowers. A small voice, nose pressed against the window, piped up , " Mom ! we've learned about this in class ! Sunflowers ! For oilseeds ! To make oil for cooking ! Wow!".......

All that came rushing back when I saw these photographs (they look much nicer in the original post) taken by my blogger friend Swaram, as part of her Wordless Wednesdays!

That probably explains the fried meduvadas......

(photo by Swaram)

So many
golden children,
proudly standing
and waving
with their green mothers,
amazingly anchored
to the soil
of the motherland.

A bit closer,
and you see
them share
and share alike
the richness of the earth,
the support of the
verdant green,
and
the benevolence
of the sky.

Bend down
to talk to one,
and you see
the bright eyes,
amidst the
yellow halo,
some red
from squinting at the sun,
some dark and serious in intent,
and some tiny ones,
way inside,
with great designs
for a wonderful life,
not as a flower
in their mother's bun,
but as a wonderful medium,
so she can make meduvadas for them….

Encounters of the fluid kind.....

Encounters at Aquariums. Noticed by my friend Sylvia, in her post, as a part of the Weekend Reflections series .


(photo by Sylvia Kirkwood)

Some,
sitting with their mothers,
held safe
all wrapped up and fed
on the counter
of the
aquarium display,
unaware of their
luck....



And some,
separated at birth,
to live
alone,
in a small
watery enclosure
with fake trees,
artificial lights,
and
piped air...

A moment of
realization
as a vision
of mother
appears
fluid,
in his memory,
a gift
from the little one
watching from outside....